No Shit, Sherlock
by HeartsAndHeadsCollide
Summary: After 23 year old Gwendolyn Pollock receives an offer from her cousin about an available flat in London, she can't refuse. She invites her friends, Melissa and Addison, to come live with her and strive in a new country. What they don't know is that Baker Street is home to none other than the world's only consulting detective himself, Sherlock Holmes.
1. Prologue I: Gwen

I knew from the moment I stepped out of the airport and into the gray streets of London that everything was going to change.

I knew very well that just one more step would catapult my new life into full motion. All I needed was a little push, although it almost felt like walking on a tightrope. Blindfolded. I knew that making it across was the goal and that falling was the worst case scenario, but I had no idea where I was going. I didn't mind it, though. I needed more than what I could find at home.

Some might say that I was running from my problems, but really I was only seeking out new ones.

Looking back, I now realize how much I have grown since the childlike wonder I felt that day, as well as how empty my life would have been without the people I was soon to meet.

And even though I was going to make horrible mistakes, fall in love with the wrong people, and suffer from heartbreak yet again, I would never change a thing.


	2. Prologue II: Melissa

My life was already dwindling like a dying star in this impending universe and when I had moved across the Atlantic Ocean, my star was ignited once again. I just wish I knew how abrupt it would begin and how fast it would hit me like a brick to the face. And let me tell you, that shit hurts like hell. But not as bad as the heart breaks that cause and endure, not as bad as watching your friend break down, one layer at a time, and watching the ones you love fall deeper into the holes they have dug themselves into. But I've been raised to push through anything, and push through anything I shall.


	3. Prologue III: Dylan

I have no mother and no father; they both died many years ago. I never knew either. But that's not to say I have no strong parental figures. Jimmy -my brother- and his employee/best friend, Sebastian, have raised me for as long as I can remember. Sebastian may as well be my father, and Jimmy my mother.

Whenever I would feel sad, Jimmy would tell me, "Life's too short to let it get to you. Once you're not too short, you can get to it". It never really made me feel better, but now that I'm not too short, Jimmy's been holding up his end of the deal.

I'm Dylan Moriarty. Art is my world and, in a way, my world is art. Everything I see inspires me in one way or another and there's not enough time in my life to get it all out. Some of my works have been sold, but that's not why I create. I create for sanctuary; I create for myself; I create so in one tiny place in the world, beauty outweighs the sadness and pain that tethers me from flying.


	4. Chapter 1: An Unexpected Decision

I was going to England. _Me_, Gwendolyn Isabel Pollock, who has never once stepped outside the United States (with the exception of that road trip I had to Canada my sophomore year of college), was going to England. Well, I should say "we". My closest friends, Addie and Melissa, were joining me.

Addison Docosta, a massage therapist in Tampa, Florida, had been my friend since I had moved to New York from Texas in sixth grade. She was what I would call an "Amazon". She was tall -five foot ten- with long brown waves that touched her lower back and seductive sky-blue eyes. She had an attitude that could topple dictators, but she was fiercely loyal to her loved ones and knew how to calm me down when I was at my craziest.

Melissa Giordano had just graduated from the Manhattan School of Music, her career as a musician not yet established. She had short honey-blonde curls (though she often straightened them), a round face with rosy cheeks, and aqua-blue eyes that always brightened when she smiled. She had all of the adorable sweetness of a cherub, as well as a contagious (and frequently used) laugh. She was also an old school friend.

I was an artist in every form of the word. I dabbled in acting, singing, drawing, the works. But the one thing that I, without a doubt, knew how to do... was _write_. It was a lifelong passion of mine. I had long, straight blonde hair, blue eyes that often changed to green or gray, and an ass the size of my home state. I was smart, funny, and the craziest bitch that had ever walked the surface of the Earth.

A couple of months previous to our decision to up and leave, my friends and I were in the beginning stages of losing touch. I was directing an off-Broadway production of Annie in New York City when Mel called and asked if I could attend her college graduation. Beyond messaging on Facebook and occasionally grabbing a cappuccino at Starbucks, I hadn't seen her much, so I naturally couldn't refuse.

She told me that Addie would also be coming and I began to jump and yelp with joy, startling my actors in the process. After hanging up, I applied my "business" face to cover for my childish behavior, but there was no hiding my happiness at the unexpected invitation.

Rejoining old friends in idle merriment was one sure way to forget the bad things that had occurred over the last year.

My ex-fiancé, who I had met in college, went from being my one love to my worst enemy. I had thought that I knew him, but after he proposed, things got out of hand. He began to argue with me over nothing, would be overprotective to the point of imprisonment as well as overly jealous of anyone I talked to, and he became aggressive towards me. It started with grabbing me around the arm and leaving bruises and ended with his threats against my life. I was fed up with his manipulative ways and instability, so I severed any remaining ties to him. It was, to say the absolute least, difficult to let him go- to push him out of my thoughts- but I knew it was for the best.

I tried to drown out the loneliness and pain with my work, but to no avail. I needed a break from life, and this simple graduation ceremony was my perfect escape.

That following Friday I headed out for Manhattan, wearing a gray tweed pencil skirt, my favorite two inch black pumps, and a white shirt with just enough buttons open to reveal a bit of cleavage. I curled my hair into loose ringlets and pinned up the top half before I applied a light red lipstick.

Upon exiting the taxi, I marveled at the sharp contrast of the plain, white-wash brick of the building against the crimson banners that billowed above the entrance. Once inside, I made my way into the auditorium where the ceremony was to take place.

I scanned the large room for Addison, but couldn't see her in any direction I turned.

The ceremony went without a hitch, making it EXTREMELY boring. I wolf-whistled, though, when Lissie walked onstage to get her diploma, looking as cute as could be in her little cap, her black heels peeking out from under her gown. The color in her cheeks rose as she shook hands with the dean.

As soon as it ended, the entire audience poured into the hallway to greet the graduates. I stood on my tiptoes in search of my friends when I saw the top of Addie's head, towering over most of the people there. She was wearing heels, I just knew it.

I snuck my way up behind her and wrapped my limbs around her waist. She screamed in surprise, slapped my arm playfully, and then all three of us danced around in a group hug.

"I'm so happy, you guys!" Melissa exclaimed, "I can do what I want without worrying about getting to class on time! No more awkward nights of sleeping in the dorm hallway because my roommate's boyfriend decided to spend the night! No more hand-cramping notes! No more confusing tests! I'M A FREE WOMAN!"

To this we all laughed. After a few minutes, I suddenly remembered that Mel's family had also attended this very important occasion. "So where's your familia?" I asked, glancing around.

"Huh? Oh! They left just before you got over here. Holly's hip-hop competition is later tonight, so they couldn't stay long." She shrugged.

"Aw, too bad. I haven't seen that kid in forever." I said of her eighteen year old sister, "Oh well. Wanna go get dinner?"

They both nodded and a few minutes later we were in a cab headed for Olive Garden. As we ate, we caught up on the events of the past few months and agreed to spend the night at Melissa's new apartment. We stayed up till the wee hours of the morning just talking and laughing to the point of tears, delusional in our exhaustion (a common occurrence during sleepovers).

The next day we were walking over to a diner down the block for brunch when a small black man in a beat up windbreaker handed me a brochure. Out of pity I accepted it and slid it into my purse before we entered the building. After finishing our meal, I pulled it from my bag and began to read it aloud.

It was something about the gay versus straight marriage statistics in California, but as soon as I said the state's name, we all looked at each other.

"Are _you_ thinkin' what _I'm_ thinkin'?" Addie asked. Then in unison, all three of us shouted:

"ROAD TRIP!"

* * *

The following day we had all our luggage packed into Addison's red Ford pickup and headed off for the sunny state of CA. We probably played the song "California Gurls", by Katy Perry, a million times on the way there. We stayed in a hotel in Malibu and spent most of our time on the beach. We would only be there for two weeks, so we made the best of it.

About a week and a half in, my cousin, Connor, called me as I was leisurely strolling through the mall.

"Hey, Gwen. You know how Irene and I moved to England a few months ago because she bought that café in London?" He asked.

"Yes. Why?"

"Who's that?" Addie interrogated.

"Connor." I mouthed back.

"Well, remember how you told me that you wouldn't mind living here yourself? Guess what..."

"What?"

"There's a flat a couple doors down from our place that's for rent. I called the landlord and told him that you might be interested."

"OH MY GOD! _INTERESTED_?!" I exclaimed, "Yes! I am! I AM! Gimme the number!"

I jotted it down on my coffee napkin as my friends looked at me in confusion.

"Okay. I'll talk to you later... neighbor." He said with a laugh.

"Yeah, see you soon! Thanks so much! Bye now!" I hung up my phone and jumped in the air, squealing.

"What the hell was that about?" Addison asked.

"It was Connor. He said that there's an apartment for rent next door to him... IN LONDON!"

"Lucky! Oh my gosh, that's so cool!" Liss said.

As we walked into Aeropostale in silence, I suddenly got the craziest idea I have ever had (which is really something, considering all of my other ones).

"What if we all move in together and share the rent?!" I held my breath, waiting for an answer.

They glanced at each other and Melissa spoke.

"Let's do it!"

* * *

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were enjoying a swim in the pool of Sherlock's brother, Mycroft's, vacation house just south of Northampton when Sherlock heard his cell phone ringing in his pants pocket. They had only been there for two days and meant to stay for a week. It was a lovely two story cottage that looked as if it had been taken right out of a postcard from a small German town. It had a large pool, complete with a diving board and a connecting hot tub. It was shallow, to John's relief, because John did not know how to swim at all.

Sherlock was bored, even though they hadn't been there but 48 hours. Their choice of activities were slim; a walk in the surrounding woods, a dip in the pool, or reading books on British history and government in the study. He knew that if he didn't have another case soon, he'd do something drastic. Naturally, he couldn't tell John this because all John would say is "just calm down", or "relax", or "you need a break". That was the last thing Holmes needed. He hated not having anything to put his mind to. To "relax" would be the death of him.

Sherlock shot out of the small, man-made body of H2O and made a grab for the cellular device. John sighed, hoping that it was only Mycroft checking up on them.

"Oh, please, Lestrade, tell me you have something for me to do!" He then began to whisper, "I thought I would die of boredom." There was a long pause and John strained to listen to what the detective inspector on the other end was saying, "Yes, of course... No, no... I wouldn't miss this for a Vivaldi concert!.. Be there by three o'clock sharp." Sherlock hung up the phone and started to jump in the air in excitement, getting John's clothes that were placed in the chair next to him all wet.

"Hey! Watch my shirt, there! What did the inspector say? Where are we going?" John interrogated, carefully guiding his way to the pool steps by holding onto the sides before getting out. He sighed when he saw the large spots of water on his polo and trousers.

"There's been a murder! No time to waste, Watson!" And with that he rushed into the house, pulling his clothes on as he ran. "Wait! Sherlock! Can't we change first?!" John called.

"No time!" Sherlock replied, poking his head out of the back door, "We'll get our things later, John. This is important!"

"Of course it is." John said to no one, feeling sorry for himself because their holiday had come to such an abrupt halt. He hurriedly put his clothes on over his soaking swim trunks and followed Sherlock into the house.

* * *

I finally finished packing my carry-on. I had to leave some of my necessities behind because they wouldn't fit in my bag, and most of it was just clutter. Winnie was going to kill me when she saw how big it was, though. Maybe I'd just buy her lunch or something. That would cover the cost. Right?

I pushed all thoughts aside when I saw the time on my phone. It was 10:30 and I had to meet Winnie and Addie at the airport at 11:30. If there was no traffic and the taxi guy didn't get lost like the last one, I should get there on time.

I grabbed my heavy carry-on and practically dragged it out of my room. I reached the stairs and was skeptical of my challenge, so I just let go of my carry-on and it tumbled down the steps. I chuckled at my laziness.

My mom came rushing to the scene where my bag sat discombobulated at the foot of the steps. She looked at it once, then back at me with anger written on her face. It didn't look like she was surprised by my stupidity. I wouldn't be, either.

"Was that necessary?" She asked.

"Yes. Yes it was." I nodded matter-of-factly. "My bag is very heavy, Mom!" I added, skipping down the steps.

She rolled her eyes, "You could have asked for help."

I managed to pick up my carry-on and place it comfortably on my shoulder as I made my way to the door, opening it. With a shrug of my shoulders, I walked outside.

"Whoa, there! You forgetting something?" My mom stopped me before I made it out of the door. She held up the guitar case in front of me.

"What would I do without you?" I whispered in fascination as I grabbed the guitar case and continued my way out of the door. If I forgot that thing, I'd be as lost as newborn butterfly.

"Yeah, what will you do without me while you're in England, Melissa?" My mom asked, sitting beside me on the steps of my apartment while I waited for the taxi.

"Mom," I began, throwing my arm over her shoulder, "I'll be fine! I'm your daughter, remember? You've raised me well." I finished with a smile.

My mom smiled back and pulled me into her warm, loving embrace. This would be the last hug from my mom for a while. Deciding to move to a new country was a pretty risky choice, but it had been a lifelong dream of mine. Since I was out of college, I thought that I was ready to pursue it. It would be twice as worth it with my best friends at my side.

"By the way, thanks for taking my apartment. I didn't want anyone else to have this thing. Plus, it saved a lot of work for me with the whole selling ordeal and getting an agent and what-not." I said, resting my head on her fragile shoulder.

"No problem! I'm glad I'm finally away from your father. He was getting on my last nerve." She replied, stroking my hair. I was happy, too. He was a drunk and treated my mom like shit. Ever since I was in high school, my parents fought nonstop. That's why I moved out as soon as I could when I got the opportunity to attend Manhattan School of Music. I bought a nice apartment with the money I saved up from gigs and lived in the city. I've always loved the city, what with its cultural diversities and the whole "every day is a new day" kind of feel. Who wouldn't? But the city of London? That's a different story. A good one, too.

The taxi driver finally pulled up to the sidewalk. We both stood up and stepped down the front stoop together. The driver got out of the cab and immediately grabbed my things, shoving them into the trunk.

"Please be safe." She said, pulling me into another tight hug.

I gripped her shoulders. "I'll be fine, Mom!" I responded, giving her a reassuring smile.

"Okay, just promise me you'll stay away from the boys." She winked as I hopped into the cab.

I stepped into the taxi and opened the window to answer her, "Nope!" I winked back as the taxi driver began to pull away. I waved goodbye to my mom, and I could see the loneliness in her smile.

* * *

I arrived at the airport just on time and I could see Winnie and Addie standing there with book bags on their backs, talking. It had been a couple of weeks since I'd seen them and I could barely contain my excitement, so I squealed. The eyes of the taxi driver stared at me through the rearview mirror. I looked away in embarrassment. Whoops.

"Just stop over here." I stuttered to the cab driver, pointing to where Winnie and Addie were standing, looking just as excited as I was.

As soon as the taxi stopped, Winnie tore open the door of the cab and dragged me out excitedly. This much excitement from Winnie was nothing out of the ordinary. You should see her when she's wasted.

Addie, Winnie, and I all huddled together in a tight hug. "I missed you, guys!" I said, but my voice was muffled between Addie's hair and Winnie's boob implants.

They must have heard me anyway, for they replied, "I missed you too!" in unison. We looked at each other and laughed.

By the time we had finished our hugs and jokes, the taxi driver was standing there impatiently with my stuff in his hands. I gave him an apologetic smile, paid him, and he was on his way.

Winnie turned to my bag, "Is your carry-on big enough?" she tried lifting it.

"Nope!" I replied confidently with one of my big, genuine smiles that people say are contagious.

"You're so cute!" Addie exclaimed, gently gripping my cheek. Being the younger one of the group, I was used to it. They were only a year older than me; the age difference wasn't that much. I was twenty-two. How can a twenty-two year old be cute?

I gave Addie a blank stare and pushed her hand aside with a smile afterwards, turning to Winnie, "About the carry-on... I know it's big, but I'll just pay you back or something with lunch."

Addie and Winnie both looked at each other and busted out laughing. "What are you talking about?" Winnie managed to say in-between laughs.

"With the weight of this bag, the price is bound to be ridiculous!" I exclaimed.

"Melissa? Carry-on's are free, dumbass!" Addie laughed; she was the one who called me cute. Now I was a cute dumbass? I was so confused.

"Oh!" I said, realizing I really was a dumbass. "I don't go to the airport often, okay?" I added, trying to come up with an excuse.

Winnie scoffed, "Yeah, we can tell." I knew she was only joking.

As we checked in, I didn't think my embarrassment could get any worse. I walked through the sensor and it went off. I forgot about my belt that I was wearing. I gave the security guards and other people waiting to go through the sensor an apologetic smile as I removed my belt and put it into the containers. I went through the sensor again and it went off once more. I sighed and remembered my earrings. I rolled my eyes and took them off, placing them in the container with my belt. Officially satisfied, I walked through the sensor and it went off _again_! Winnie and Addie stood on the other side, trying to contain their laughter while I was ready to punch that thing.

"Ma'am, if you would step over here, please." A large, lean man ordered with a dark, intimidating voice. I cautiously stepped over to where he stood with a metal detector. My embarrassment level was off the roof.

"Mel?" Addie called out to me. I looked up at her and she was pointing to her chest. I looked down at my precious necklace. It was a medium length chain with three crosses, a heart that Winnie gave me for my sixteenth birthday and a "best friends forever" charm in the shape of two eighth notes. We all had one. Addie had another one in the shape of one eighth note, and Winnie's was in the shape of a treble clef. We've had these charms since we were sixteen and seventeen but I've had the chain since I was fifteen. The necklace was my time capsule. It kept track of all my memories.

The security guard noticed my necklace as I took it off. "Go on ahead." He said.

I smiled and replied, "Thank you!" before I ran through the sensor, thanking god that it didn't go off again while I grabbed my shoes and other belongings.

And, of course, Winnie was hungry.

We grabbed a bite to eat at one of the restaurants inside the airport. I got a chicken salad, Addie got a burger, and Winnie, an entire freaking meal.

"Wow, hungry much?" I exclaimed, watching her consume what seemed enough to feed all of Manhattan.

"I haven't eaten like this in over six months!" She exclaimed with food in her mouth, "So I'm going full out, baby!"

We all laughed at her. "Gotta keep an eye on my low carb diet." Winnie joked.

"What if you really were?" I teased.

"Me? On a low carb diet?" She scoffed, "That's like you losing your virginity before marriage!"

Addie and Winnie both laughed hysterically, the non-virgins in this triple threat trio, and I rolled my eyes. Yes, it was true. I was but an innocent virgin and they always teased me for it. I just wanted it to be with someone special. There is nothing wrong with being a twenty-two year old virgin.

"Har-dee-har-har!" I replied with a roll of my eyes. They knew I didn't mind the insults. It's what best friends do!

"But why six months? What happened?" I asked, breaking up their laughter.

Winnie smiled and then rolled her eyes with a big sigh, "You remember Chris? My ex fiancé? Well, I practically starved myself for the six months we were engaged to fit into the wedding dress."

"Oh yeah. _That_ Chris. I told you that guy was a nut job. But you were so in "_love_", you wouldn't listen to me." I said, once again digging into my salad. I had lost my appetite thinking about the crap we went through with Winnie about Chris. He beat her and it just put us all into an unstable and unpleasant mental state.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Winnie shrugged.

"Departure for gate 2B will be in fifteen minutes." A voice called through the intercom. We all got up, dumped the rest of our food, and made our way to gate 2B.

We boarded the plane and we knew it would take about seven hours to arrive at London's airport. Addie and Winnie closed their eyes, but my excitement got the best of me. I just couldn't fall asleep.

We finally arrived and I could feel the drowsiness beginning to set in. I could hardly get my carry-on to stay on my shoulder, I was so tired. I was stuck listening to music for seven hours and I could hear a ringing in my ears.

But all my energy came back to me when a woman with a strong British accent greeted me with a crooked smile, "Welcome to London, England."

* * *

Sherlock and Watson arrived in St. John's Wood at a quarter to three in a cab, their clothes still wet from their late morning swim.

Detective Inspector Lestrade, a tall man in his mid-forties with salt-and-pepper colored hair, greeted them at the sidewalk of Oak Street as they exited the car. Confusion crossed his face when he noticed their wet trousers and he wondered whether or not he wanted to ask. John saw his expression.

"We went swimming!" He explained hastily, suddenly feeling self-conscious as to his appearance.

"What are you talking about, John? You don't know how to swim!" Sherlock said, completely oblivious to his comrade's embarrassment. He then made his way into the playground that would undoubtedly contain all the answers to whatever mystery it held.

As Holmes looked about, Lestrade explained the facts to John.

"The victim, a man by the name of Roderick Hans, was 48 years old, 5'6, approximately 71 kilograms; brown hair, blue eyes. According to his neighbors, he moved into a flat a few months ago on Elm's Road, not two blocks from here. When Donovan did a background check, we discovered that he was a geologist originally from Denmark and his wife died two years ago in a mountain climbing incident. He has no family and no known friends. A bit of a loner, I guess."

Lestrade led Watson through the gate and passed the thick shrubbery that obstructed their view of the crime scene. He saw a man on his back in a navy blue tracksuit, arms wide open, palms up, with his feet still resting on the seat of the swing. As John neared the body, he saw that the man's face was gruesomely twisted into an expression of shock and fear. His eyes were open and a small hole was in the center of his forehead.

"His neighbor, Nancy Ferguson, saw him go out for his daily jog around the block as she was seeing her husband off to work at about 5:30. He never returned. At half past nine, a woman was taking her children to the park. She had seen him slumped over on the swing set, ignoring him until her son prodded him for a turn, and then he fell over to reveal the gun wound. When we arrived, he had been dead for only a couple of hours." Lestrade continued.

Sherlock, kneeling besides the corpse, stood up and smirked at John. Watson could already see the wheels spinning in Sherlock's head. He wondered what Holmes could possibly get out of this.

"You see, we called you here because this man had no criminal record, was considered a "decent gentleman" by Mrs. Ferguson, and barely talks to his colleagues. I would almost say he was mugged, but at seven in the morning? In a higher class place like this? Couldn't be." The D.I. said, standing beside Holmes, "And from what we can tell, nothing was taken from him, either."

"Watson, tell me what you see." Sherlock demanded coolly, gesturing towards the dead man.

"Well, the bullet hole is definitely from a 9 millimeter. Most likely a handgun... The fact that he was sitting on the swing as well as the lack of blood here means that he was killed elsewhere and then... brought here."

"You are correct. Anything else?"

"Um... No."

"Well, then, good job. But you missed a bit. At 7 there was dew on the grass, naturally. If you look at the concrete path here, there are light impressions of footprints, size 12, to and from the swing set, the only thing remaining is slight mud and grass that had stuck to our killer's shoe. Only a working boot would collect that much on the bottom without the owner having to stomp about. The murderer is about six feet tall judging by his gait. Beside the footprints, there are two trails of dirt, both of which are the exact width of Mr. Hans's heels. So he was dragged. He was killed not too far from here, so have an officer search in any nearby car parks or empty buildings, as well as dumpsters or bushes for the gun. As John correctly stated, the bullet hole is the result of a 9 millimeter, and the murderer most likely used a silencer. I can also assure you that the weapon in question can be traced to an illegal seller. So our killer would have known where to look for such a purchase. But since Hans has no criminal record, it must be a revenge killing. So, what was the _reason_ for murder? What motive could a mediocre gunman have to end the life of a simple _rock_ _scientist_?"

"Not a clue." The other two men said in unison. Sherlock sighed in frustration.

"Look at the body! The expression on his face clearly shows that he knew his killer! Hans was surprised, so the murderer must've been an acquaintance. If you look at his hair, you'll notice that his roots are gray, so Mr. Hans dyed his hair. Why would a man who is 48 years old, with a dead wife, dye his hair?" Sherlock inquired, bringing his hands together at his lips, as if in prayer. He peered over them at John, "_Oh_..."

"What?" They asked.

"Lestrade, take me to the victim's flat." He commanded.

"What for?!"

"I have to take a peek at his wardrobe." Sherlock replied, taking off in long strides, his dark curly hair bouncing in the slight wind. Lestrade and John had to jog a bit to keep up with him.

"Why in hell do you need to look at his clothes?!" The inspector asked, dumbfounded by his sudden and very strange request.

"I will explain once I find what I am looking for." He replied distantly, lost in thought.

* * *

James Moriarty sat at his rather large mahogany table, finishing his breakfast, when his maid bustled in, a feather duster in one hand and a stack of envelopes in the other.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Jim." The gorgeous woman said. She had long golden hair; the perfect ringlets pinned up in a tight bun. She was wearing the short black dress, fishnets, and white apron that Jim had given to her as her "uniform". He figured that if he had a French maid, he might as well dress her up like one. He loved role-playing; acting; pretending; because that was the only way he could get what he wanted.

She placed what was in her small grasp on the table.

"Good morning, Antoinette, my dear." She giggled as he kissed her hand.

"My husband iz out tonight, if-"

"What's this?" He cut her off, picking up the mail and looking through it.

"Oh, ze mail, Monsieur. As I was saying, perhaps I could see you tonight?"

"Mmm... Maybe. If I'm still in a good mo-" He suddenly stood when he saw one of the envelopes and slammed his hands on the table, the napkin in his lap falling to the floor. The sound startled Antoinette, who squeaked.

"Oh, Monsieur! What iz ze matter?!"

"Excuse me." He responded through clenched teeth, picking up all of the mail and storming out of the room, leaving the maid to clean up the remains of his breakfast. Moriarty walked briskly down the west wing and barged into the weight room.

Colonel Sebastian Moran, shirtless in gray cotton sweatpants, was doing pull-ups on the bar in the middle of the room, the tiger tattoo on his upper left arm rippling over his tanned, flexing muscles. He dropped to the floor on his bare feet at the sight of Moriarty leaning against the door frame, the envelopes spread out like a hand of cards in his grasp.

"What's that?" Sebastian asked while he picked up the towel on the bench in front of him and draped it around his neck, sweat on the brow of his dark blue eyes. He had an Australian accent, despite the fact that he lived in Dublin his entire life. He had his Sydney-born parents to thank for that. Moriarty stepped into the room and threw the envelopes onto the bench.

"Mail. Or more specifically, debt reminders and death threats." He replied, straightening the purple tie of his expensive slate-colored suit.

"So... what are we going to do about that, then, Jim?" Seb asked, running his giant paw-like hand through his short blonde hair.

"Well, I was thinking that the little bit of money you accumulate from the government could-"

"Are you kidding? My army pension wouldn't last us a week in this house. If we need money so bad, why can't you sell some of those useless knick-knacks you have scattered around all over the place?"

"They are not simply "knick-knacks", Seb! They are valuable cultural items that I have collected over the course of my career. Besides, I already sold several of them when paying off the Italian mafia for their... failed services." Jim replied.

Sebastian crossed his arms and sighed, "They serve no real purpose other than collecting dust. They belong in a museum or art gallery or something."

"Fiiiine!" Moriarty groaned.

"Alright, then. How about the Japanese armor in the east wing?"

"Already gone. Sold it for four million quid."

"And that statue of the Greek goddess from Athens in the garden?"

"It's _Aphrodite_, Seb! And do I have to? She's one of my favorites!" He pleaded.

"Jim, it's for the best. And might I ask what happens when we sell everything? I suggest we find a cheaper living space and get j-"

"No! Not the j-word!"

"Yes, Jim, _jobs_. We have to get _jobs_."

"But I have one! Business is just... slow."

"By slow you mean dead. You really screwed us over when that bloody detective, Sherlcock-"

"Sher_lock_." Jim corrected.

"Yes, yes, whatever the hell his name is! You screwed us over when he didn't die. If you keep up your expensive obsession with him- this includes those crazy murder attempts that never seem to work- we _will_ end up empty handed. We have no choice."

"I hate it when you're right, Sebastian. You know very well that that is _my_ forte. Just don't tell Dylan. She mustn't worry about our current… _predicament_."

"What predicament, Jimmy?" Dylan asked, entering the room.

Jim sucked in his lips before answering, "Oh, there you are, dear girl. Nothing for you to worry your little head about."

"Don't treat me like I'm stupid, Jimmy. I know you're bringing in no money."

"Yes... About that-"

"So when are we moving?"

Jim's mouth dropped a bit at that and Sebastian shook his head.

"Look, Dylan, nothing is certain." Seb paused a moment, "Wait, shouldn't you be in school?"

"Yeah." She replied and turned to leave.

"Hey, tell the chauffeur to tell the chef that we're out of milk. I wasn't terribly pleased when I went into the kitchen for a midnight snack and had nothing to wash down my digestives with. Not to mention that the coffee creamer this morning was disgusting." Jim said.

"Okay." She called from the hallway and they waited until the echo of her footsteps faded before they spoke.

"What's going to happen to us, Sebastian?" Moriarty asked in what faintly sounded like desperation.

"I dunno, Jim. Guess we'll just have to wait and see."

* * *

Lestrade left Holmes and Watson at the steps of Hans's flat and then went back to the station. Sherlock entered the apartment and glanced about before heading up the stairs. He suddenly stopped and then came back down, taking a closer look at the room.

"What is it, Holmes?" John asked, tugging on his pants at the knee. The wet swim shorts underneath were making walking very uncomfortable.

"There aren't many pictures up on the walls, are there?"

"So..?"

"None of them are of his wife. There are only pictures of him."

"Okay. And..?"

"I need to see his room first." With that, Sherlock leapt up the stairs, two at a time. When John entered the small bedroom, he spotted Holmes sifting through the chest of drawers.

"So... why are his clothes important?" He asked, leaning against the open door.

"At the crime scene I noticed that his track suit and sneakers were brand new, but his socks and undershirt could've been at least three years old." Holmes replied, switching to the closet.

"Alright. So he bought some new clothes. What does that have to do with the murder?"

"Ah-ha! There we go! Look here, John. All the clothes on the left side are old and frequently worn. Work clothes, judging by the stains and tears. But here on the right side the clothes are quite new. And expensive. Two suits, together about 800 pounds, and evening attire. One of the suits still has a price tag. The other has been washed several times, but the material is still stiff. There are slight creases in the arm and behind the knee, so he's only worn it on three or four occasions at most. The dress clothes have been worn more often. Oh! What's that, there?!" He said, pushing the items he was previously referring to aside. There, in the corner of the closet, was a cardboard box. He got on his knees and pulled it out. It was taped shut.

"Knife." He said, hand out to his companion.

"Right, here." John searched his pockets, found it, and then placed it in Sherlock's palm. Sherlock then proceeded to cut through the layers of duct tape.

"Perhaps he wore one of the suits to his wife's funeral. And maybe he wore the dress clothes to church. Or before his wife's death. It's not uncommon for childless couples to go out on dates." John said, fighting the urge to take his pants off. The fabric was rubbing up against the inside of his thighs. He was going to have a rash, he just knew it.

"Possible, but unlikely." Sherlock answered, opening the lid of the box, "Well, look at this!"

There, in the box, were many picture frames. He picked up the one on top and examined it.

"The missing photographs." John responded, noting how lovely the woman in the pictures had been. She was near the same age as Mr. Hans, but didn't look it at all.

"Yes, Just one more thing. Did you see the cross necklace Hans was wearing?"

"Um..." John struggled to recall, but he couldn't, "No..."

"Well, it was real silver and extremely expensive. No man would buy that for himself."

"Maybe his wife gave it to him."

"Perhaps, but he isn't wearing it in any of these photos."

"Well, what if he didn't like it, but only wears it because he misses her?'

"Why would he wear a cross necklace he doesn't like for sentimental purposes if he has hidden all of his wife's pictures in his closet and doesn't even have on his wedding rin-" Something flashed in Sherlock's eyes and John knew exactly what that meant.

"Find the ring?"

Together, they looked throughout the room. Holmes was rummaging in the drawer of Hans's bedside table when John heard him shout, "Ah-ha!". Sherlock had the ring between his index finger and thumb, holding it up. Watson could see the light glinting off of the small gold band.

"Just as I suspected. I found it beneath an old copy of _The Importance of Obsidian Rocks_. It hasn't been worn or cleaned in at least a year by the slight tarnishing and the layer of dust that has settled on it." Sherlock said, putting it back inside the drawer before closing it.

"So the cross necklace _was_ a gift, but not from his deceased wife?"

"Correct, Watson. He has been seeing someone since he moved to St. John's Wood. And since he bought a new suit, he was becoming more serious about her. Oh, Lestrade's decided to join us."

At that moment, the inspector entered the room. Sherlock knew his footsteps anywhere.

"Officer Colton found a puddle of blood in an empty parking lot behind a pub. He also found a .44 caliber Glock with a silencer in a dumpster not twenty feet away. Donovan has traced it to its seller. The man admitted to selling the exact same gun several weeks ago. He said that he had dropped it off near a car and the money was there. He never saw the buyer. Any ideas as to the motive?"

"Yes. Hans was having an affair with the love interest of the killer. The murderer must've known for a period of time if he bought the gun so long ago. He had been planning it."

"How will we find the killer, then? The affair was well hidden from the neighbors, so how do we know where to look?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock didn't answer, but instead paced to and fro. He suddenly stopped and stared out of the bedroom window, "Let's start with Mrs. Ferguson."

* * *

Eight tedious hours of school were finally behind me as I walked with heavy eyes up the pathway. I didn't know why exactly it was that Jimmy even made me suffer through a miserable day among illiterate dumbasses. I've tried to use the misery of his school days to my favor more times than my "peers" could count. Every time ended the same way.

Jimmy's expression barely changed as he calmly said, "Dylan, without those moronic classmates of yours, you'll never have the true need for revenge. Then how will you be like me someday?"

Clearly, my brother wanted me to wind up as bitter and twisted as himself.

Nevertheless, I woke up at six o'clock sharp every morning and readied myself for another day of doodling and busywork. I realized how condescending I sounded when I said these things, but truth be told, I was. Why would I bother myself to be kind when boys fell at first glance and every girl had wished they had my sarcastic charm?

I shuffled through the crumpled papers in my bag in search of my house key. Before I found it, though, Seb was standing in the open door, looking down at me.

"It was open, y'know." He said, smiling at my idiocy, "Not your brightest moment."

"Exactly why I shouldn't be going to school; it's really making me dumber."

"Nice try," called Jimmy from the inside of the house, "but it won't work."

"Damn." I said quietly to myself, disappointed. I strolled into the house wearing my dissatisfaction on my face.

"Don't be so glum, love," Jimmy said, putting his arm around my shoulder and his hand over my eyes," I've got a surprise for you!"

My annoyance reversed itself into excitement and impatience. "What is it?!" I near squealed, trying to move his hand.

"Hold on, you impatient little girl!" He walked me into what I figured to be the foyer and then up the stairs.

I barely managed not to trip on my own feet as we escalated. He suddenly pulled his hand to his side and before me I saw a magnificent art wonderland.

Not only had my amazing older brother purchased me supplies, but Seb had also mounted my already made works on every wall of my room.

My jaw dropped at the unbelievable sight. I spun in circles, admiring my own creations hung so elegantly, and after, flung my arms around them both lovingly.

* * *

As soon as I stepped off of the plane, I had a sudden burst of energy. I was in fucking _London_. The place that was talked about in Jane Austen's books, in Dickens classics like _Oliver Twist_ or_ A Christmas Carol_, and in television shows like_ Doctor Who_. It was crazy knowing that I was in a city that was densely populated even before Columbus's discovery of the West Indies in the late 15th century!

I threw my carry-on over my shoulder and bounded toward the exit of the airport, spinning several times in the rotating door. It was fun, but it only achieved the strange looks of passerby, Addison's glare, and Melissa's palm to her own forehead. Feeling dizzy, I stumbled my way out onto the sidewalk and fell on my ass, laughing hysterically at my stupidity. When I was finally able to stand, I threw my bag on the ground and ran around the street, commanding strangers to speak so that I could hear their accents and then asking them to pinch my arm.

When Addison and Mel pulled me away and questioned my foolish behavior, I replied that it was due to my fear that it was all but a dream. In truth, I was _deathly_ afraid of discovering that it was just an alternate reality pieced together by my subconscious. Too often had I dreamt of the wonderful things that I desired, only to awaken with nothing.

So there were three reasons I wanted to move to England. One, I needed to fulfill some distant dream that haunted me in my sleep. Two, I needed to escape from the demons of my past. And three, I needed to find a place where I belonged. I was simply too eccentric for America; too intelligent for the brain-dead creatures that lurked about on every street corner in the whole of New York.

I calmed myself down from my previous euphoric retardation and, with my two best friends, waved over a taxi that would take us to our new home. On the way there, as the three of us were trying to figure out the difference between American and European currency, Irene (my cousin's fiancée who I have known intimately since my freshman year of college) called.

"Darling! I rang so that I could warn you about the excitement we are all in to see you! When you're all settled into your flat, come over to the café. Connor and I have something to tell you and your friends."

"Can't wait! And do you happen to know if-"

"Yes, dear, the moving van is here."

"You know everything, Irene." I said with a laugh.

"I surely hope not. See you in a few, love!" She said in a bemused fashion and ended the call before I was able to utter a farewell.

I glanced at my friends, who were nudging each other playfully beside me, and then looked out of the cab window, my mind teeming with all of the romantic adventures I prayed I would have.

* * *

John was the first to exit the taxi, an annoyed expression plastered on his world-weary face as he waited for his companion. Sherlock stepped out of the vehicle, his chin high in the air, a bloody handkerchief held gingerly to his nose.

"Yeah... Sherlock? How about next time we _don't_ offend possible killers, hmm?"

"Anything for a case, John! It was the only way I could get Mr. Ferguson to admit he murdered Hans! I knew from the moment he walked into the room when we were questioning his wife that he was the culprit. It was the boots he was wearing as well as his height. Being that he was a police officer proved my statement that the killer knew exactly where and how to get a hold of illegal weaponry. And the wife was obviously the woman that Hans was having an affair with. She was a mess of postmenopausal emotion, what with her obnoxious wailing. She was making it very difficult to interrogate. So yes, I was completely aware at that point that Mr. Ferguson was our murderer. He just needed a bit of coaxing."

"Holmes, that was still completely uncall-"

"Oh look," Sherlock cut him off sarcastically, "new neighbors. How _wonderful_. Let's hope they're not assassins this time, eh, John?"

Sherlock made his way into 221B as John glanced at the next apartment over, a moving van parked in front. There were several men carrying in furniture and boxes.

"Hmm." He shrugged, following his companion into their shared flat.


	5. Chapter 2: I Love You, London!

We were finally on our way to the apartment to meet up with the landlord and I didn't know what to expect. We knew nothing about him or her and I was just hoping the apartment was well worth it. The last thing I wanted to see was a shitty ass apartment and we would have to go home.

Winnie's excitement was as ecstatic as mine. She was hanging out of the window of the taxi, screaming, "I love you, London!" and Addie tugged at her shirt, trying to pull her in.

"Yeah, Winnie! Get back in the cab!" I barked. Winnie slid back in the taxi and slumped in her seat with a pout, crossing her arms.

"It's my turn." I added with a wink. I rolled down the window and began shouting, "I love you, London! I want to have your babies!"

* * *

Molly Hooper was casually walking home from the morgue, looking within a folder from a body she had examined earlier that day, when all of a sudden there was a disturbance in her left ear. It sounded like an excited female, screaming about wanting to have London's babies.

She looked up to see a young woman hanging out of a taxi car, continuing to shout. She stopped in her tracks.

"That was odd." Molly said, "Suddenly, my life just got interesting."

* * *

The cab stopped at our destination; 222C Baker Street. A handsome young man with a cleanly shaven face stood on the sidewalk talking to the moving guys. He had brown hair and dark eyes. His hair was spiked and you could see the gel in it. It looked like he took his time in preparing himself that afternoon. He wore a long sleeved, tight fitted black button down shirt with a pair of casual blue jeans and black sneakers.

"That-tha-that's the landlord!" Winnie squealed, falling out of the taxi when it stopped. Addie and I followed her.

"Oh, he is yummy." I commented, leaning on my hip.

"Dibs!" Addie claimed, beginning to walk over to him.

I gripped her arm and pulled her back, "You can't just call dibs on a guy, Addie. Especially when I saw him first." I laughed, trying not to sound rude.

"Sight doesn't matter, it matters whether or not you call dibs on him." She snorted, crossing her arms.

"First of all," Winnie interrupted, "I saw him first. Second of all, why don't we win him with a little fair competition?"

Addie and I looked at each other in agreement.

"Okay." I said.

"Alright, whoever he fancies the most first, gets him and the biggest room." She winked with a little playfulness in her tone.

"Oh, you are so on." I challenged.

"Ah, ladies!" The landlord realized we were there and made his way over to us. Just the way he walked made me want him so bad. Yeah, I was a virgin, but I had my fantasies too.

"I'll go first." I said, walking over to meet with him.

Before I could speak, he took my hand and shook it, "Hi, I'm Phillip Dawson. But you can just call me Phil. Phillip is too long and it sounds like a tongue disease." He explained with an oh-so-cute smile while violently shaking my hand, "I am so excited to have you guys live in this apartment! It's just been remodeled and all. My wife and I... well, it didn't quite work out. So I'm putting my apartment up for rent and I hope it will suit your liking."

"Well, my name is Melissa and we're the girls renting out your apartment! Obviously." I said excitedly, "But you can call me Mel." I smiled sweetly, hoping my charm would lure him in.

"Sorry, love," he replied with his British accent, "I don't like blondes." Then he walked right past me to address Winnie and Addie.

"I'm sure you'll love the apartment." Phil said, clasping his hands together, "Now if you would follow me, I'll give you a tour."

I gawked at him as he walked away.

"Nice try." Winnie said, hitting my butt slightly, "Watch and learn."

I followed behind Addie as I watched Winnie move in on Phil like he was her prey, wrapping her arm around his side. "So, tell me about the apartment." She said seductively. I tried not to laugh when I remembered that he didn't like blondes. Just wait until she finds out.

"Well, it was built in the mid 1800's and I had remodeled it for my family and I, but it didn't quite work out for us, like I said before." He explained as we walked into the flat, nudging away from Winnie. A closet to the right and a giant wall stood in front of us with a few paintings from various artists.

"So does that mean you're single now?" Winnie asked, walking her fingers up his arm. He chuckled and swiftly moved away, trying to avoid her touch.

He moved on to the next room, which was the living room. A large TV set layup was against the wall that we had seen when we first walked in, but on the other side. A love seat laid a couple of feet away from it, but the room was rather large with a fireplace near the far righthand corner. A few windows scattered the walls and let in plenty of natural light.

"This was the only room I left alone." Phil smiled, gazing around it. Even though he hadn't touched it, the room was still modern looking. I think it was the furniture. There was a banister that made an opening to look down upon the living room from the second floor.

It almost looked like Winnie was about to give up, but she still had that look in her eye like she wasn't done. I was dying to tell her that he didn't like blondes, but I was sure she wouldn't believe me.

He showed us the kitchen, which was nothing more than a modern culinary-designed room with stainless steel appliances and granite countertops. I couldn't wait to fuck up whatever recipes I usually fuck up... like boiling water.

"I'd make a sandwich for you in here if you'd like." Winnie offered, batting her eyelashes. He passed right by her and out of the kitchen, back through to the living room to arrive at the stairs that were in the hallway, across from the closet in the front of the apartment. We followed him.

"Now, the rooms are straight up the stairs and they align the wall on the right. You can all check those out later." He chuckled. It was an uncomfortable chuckle, like he was desperate to get out of there.

I knew he was annoyed and Winnie didn't get the hint, "Maybe you and I can check out the rooms by ourselves." Winnie said, grabbing his hands. She just didn't know when to give up.

"Now, for the basement." He said, pulling away from Winnie's grasp and swiftly making his way through the kitchen. We followed closely behind and he led us through a door that was on the left wall near the fridge.

A small room went down to the stairs that descended to the basement. The basement was the perfect size. Winnie looked at me and I knew exactly what she was thinking. Music and art studio. That's what we were going to do with the room.

Winnie leapt over to me and grabbed my hands. "This apartment is amazing! You can play your guitar down here and you can turn whatever room that is into a recording booth," she suggested, pointing to a bathroom in the corner that was unfinished, "and I can use this basement to paint and just zone out like I do all of the time!" She squealed.

"I know! I'm so excited to write music and just chill out down here!" I joined in.

A flirtatious laughter interrupted our moment of ideas. We turned to face Addie, who was twirling her hair and smiling and giggling with Phil.

"No way." I whispered, "She's not winning, is she?"

"I believe so." Winnie chuckled.

"Alright, I guess the tour is over." Phil said as he made his way up the stairs and Addie followed closely behind.

As soon as we got outside, Phil pulled out a piece of paper and wrote something down on it, then handed it to Addie.

"She just got his number." I whispered in shock, "How the hell did she-" Before I could finish my sentence, Addie walked over to us with the piece of paper in front of her face.

"Hah!" She chuckled.

Phil entered his car, and with a wave, he drove off.

"You two are amateurs." Addie scoffed, and walked into the apartment as Winnie followed behind with a pitiful smile and a shrug of the shoulders.

I pouted and before I was about to make my way into the apartment, I heard the faint panting and struggling voice of an elderly lady. I looked to the left and saw the old woman struggling to carry two grocery bags out of a taxi cab.

"Come on, Mrs. Hudson! You do this every week!" The taxi driver shouted at her.

"I'm sorry! Could you be patient for a least a moment or two?" She begged.

I ran over to the old lady, "Mrs. Hudson! Would you like some help?"

* * *

"Thank you, dearie!" Mrs. Hudson called to me as I left her apartment after helping her with the groceries. It felt good to help the elderly.

"Anytime, Mrs. H!" I answered.

I walked down the stairs to the first floor, making my way to my apartment. As I reached the middle landing, I bumped into a stranger. Without even looking at them, I apologized and continued for the exit, in a hurry to get home and continue unpacking.

"Excuse me?" The stranger spoke. I turned to them and it was a man about 5 foot 7 with a warm smile. He had a little stubble and dark blue eyes that almost seemed to glimmer from the sun that peeked through the windows. He had rusty blonde hair and must have been in his mid-thirties.

"Uh, were you just in my flat?" He asked, pointing to his apartment door. He had a British accent that sent a chill up my spine. His tone sounded curious, not angry.

"Oh! Sorry, yeah. I was just helping Mrs. Hudson with the groceries. You see, I just moved in next door and I saw her struggling with them." I explained.

He made his way down the steps and stopped about a couple inches from me, scanning my body with his curious eyes.

"Will you be helping more often?" He asked with an awkward tone. I knew he was trying to flirt and he was failing miserably. I thought it was cute.

"I don't know, we'll have to se-"

"Would you like to join me for dinner?" He interrupted.

"What?" I asked, shocked. No one had asked me out on a date so suddenly before. I kind of liked it.

"You know. Dinner? This evening? My place? Or maybe this lovely restaurant down the street that has this amazing ravioli and sausage dish. Oh, and they usually cover it with this delicious tomato sauce and-"

"I would love to go out with you." I interrupted, giggling at his rambling, "The ravioli sounds good!"

He raised his eyebrows and smiled. "Really? Oh, wow." He said under his breath, "Meet me here at seven?"

I nodded my head and began to walk out of the building. Then it hit me. I stopped and turned around as he was climbing the stairs, "Hey, what's your name?"

He stopped on the steps, "Oh, it's John Watson. Doctor John Watson."

A doctor? My parents would be so proud.

"And yours, dear?" He asked.

"Melissa Giordano." I replied with a warm smile

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Miss Giordano. I will be looking forward to seeing you tonight." He said, making his way up the stairs again.

I walked out, smiling like a fool.

* * *

That night, I had made sure I didn't dress up too much by remaining subtle, yet wanting to make a statement. So, I went with the classic black mini dress and daring red heels. Not something I would usually try, but it was a new country which meant a new me.

I walked outside at around 7:03- wanting to be fashionably late- and John was already standing there, looking as cute as ever. He wore a suit with his undershirt unbuttoned and the lazy, not quite bad boy look suited him.

He turned to me and smiled, gesturing towards me. "Ah, you look lovely." He complimented with a shy smile. I blushed.

"Aw, thank you!" I replied, twirling around in my dress.

He laughed. "Just beautiful. Shall we go?" He asked, holding up his arm, offering to walk with me.

"We shall!" I giggled.

* * *

_Sherlock must die_, Moriarty thought, _but how?_

He had plans from A to Z for this man, and at that point in time, A through P failed. Horrendously. Jim could not understand how the detective was able to survive or completely escape every plot against his life. He knew very well that Sherlock had no idea that Jim himself had also faked his death that day on the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, so it was out of the question that Holmes actually knew that someone was after him. Jim was very careful about that.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock..." He muttered to himself whilst shaking his head as he typed furiously the next solution to his, as Seb once called it, "detective problem", on his laptop. Plan Q. Jim noticed that with each failed attempt, every coming plot lost a bit of the brilliancy that the previous ones had possessed.

It irked him, to say the least, that this floppy haired git could ruin everything that Jim had built up because he didn't actually bust his head open on the bloody sidewalk. He knew how Sherlock did it, though, -it didn't take him long to figure it out- but it pissed him off that he was not able to think of that particular outcome first.

Jim sighed wearily and sat back in his large black leather swivel chair, carefully running over the events of the last couple of years.

When Holmes "came back from the dead", Jim's clients began dropping like flies. It was because they believed him to be unstable and incapable of running a successful crime organization due to his boredom and the distraction that men like Sherlock provided. He got too involved and it wrecked everything he had worked for, as well as his reputation.

Jim was tapping on his oak desk, eyes closed, with his right hand to his temple when Antoinette, his maid and latest plaything, entered his study.

"What do you want?" He inquired without opening his eyes. He knew who it was before the knob even turned. Her heels always clacked obnoxiously on his marble floors and it annoyed him that she didn't at least try to tread lightly.

"Oh, Monsieur, there iz a man that sayz he must talk to you immediately!" She said breathlessly, rushing to his desk.

"I am busy, Antoinette. Tell the gentleman to leave, if you please."

"But Monsieur, he sayz it iz urgent!"

"I am in the middle of a very important plot. Tell him to go away."

"But Monsieur! It iz about ze house!"

"Tell the bastard to piss off! Go!" He demanded, raising his voice.

"But Jim! If you lose ze house, that meanz that you have to fire all ze staff! Including moi! And if that happenz, my husband will take me back to Parie and I will never see you again and-"

"ENOUGH!" He bellowed in anger, standing up, his eyes ablaze with darkness, "LEAVE MY STUDY AND TELL THAT IDIOT DOWNSTAIRS THAT I WILL CONVERSE WITH HIM WHEN I HAVE LESS IMPORTANT MATTERS TO ATTEND TO! THANK YOU! GOODNIGHT! LEAVE ME IN FUCKING PEACE, WOMAN!"

His rage and the expression on his face frightened the poor girl to tears. He turned away and pinched the bridge of his nose to collect himself before he spoke again.

"Listen, dear," He said with a feigned apologetic tone," I am sorry for my outburst, but I am incredibly busy. You needn't worry about the house and you especially shouldn't worry about losing me. Alright?"

He came around the desk and she threw herself into his arms, crying into his neck. He thought her belief in everything he said and did was completely pathetic, but he couldn't dispose of her. Not yet. She still had a role to play for him.

"It iz okay, Jim. I know you have been stressed out lately. I waz only worried about us, you see."

"I understand, darling. Everything will be fine. Now please run along, dear. I need my solitude."

"Yes, Monsieur! Of course. I am so sorry for interrupting you. I shall go, then." She replied and then kissed him passionately on the lips before clicking out of the room.

"He iz wonderful." She told herself in a whisper, "I know he can seem so frightening at times, but it iz only hiz work getting ze best of him. He loves me and we'll end up together some day. I just know it."

She went to tend to Jim's unwanted guest, completely unaware of the fate that her lover had planned for her.


	6. Chapter 3: Lestrade's Problem

When Addie and I arrived at Speedy's Café, we discovered that Irene and Connor were throwing us a welcoming party. Melissa told us that she would meet with us later and when she _did_ come, her clothes were all fancy and her hair all done up. She _also_ got a date. Figures. The day was at its close, so I'd be the only one in the group still single.

After yet another round of greetings and fresh beer, Irene, with her dark hair half pinned up and a smile on her red lips, decided that it was time to impart whatever information she had been withholding an hour or so before.

"Alright, my darlings! One of my employees, a nice gentleman by the name of Eddy, is a blossoming musician and DJ. He recently asked me if he could set up a platform just there in the corner of the room, large enough to fit a few instruments, and perform here every Friday night. I naturally couldn't refuse such a capital idea. Since you yourself are a performer of sorts, Gwen, as well as your friends from what I gather, I couldn't help but ask you if you would also join our little Friday concerts."

"Are you SERIOUS?!" I shrieked, "Miss Irene Elizabeth Adler, I would _love_ to!"

"Me, too!" Melissa added.

"I'm not really a musician, but I wouldn't mind joining sometimes." Said Addie.

"Well, it's settled, then! How wonderful! How about some mudslides?"

* * *

Greg Lestrade was standing beside the door to 221B, a cigarette between his fingertips. He had stopped smoking years ago -nowadays he relied on nicotine patches-, but after the scene that Sherlock had made earlier that day, he sure as hell needed one. The superintendent was _not_ happy with the inspector's dependency on "that weirdo", Holmes. But Lestrade had to collect his bearings before he could tell Sherlock off for his appalling behavior. It took all he had to talk about simple matters with the man, let alone attempt to show him the error of his ways.

As Lestrade was pondering over the several approaches he could make towards his colleague, Gwen was stumbling her way out of Speedy's, her brain fogged up with all of the alcohol she had consumed. Addie had a job interview the next day, so Melissa had to drag her to their new flat in order to sober her up. They had left Gwen at the bar.

Once she got past the door, she ran right into Lestrade, startling him.

"I am soooooooooo sorry!" She giggled, almost falling to the ground. Lestrade caught her and held her steadily.

"That's alright, dear. Where're you headed?"

"Jus... there." She slurred, pointing to the apartment next to 221B.

"Why don't I help you? You can barely stand."

"Mmmkay!" She exclaimed happily, locking her arm with his and attempted to lead him to her flat.

"I haven't seen you round here before. New here?"

"Yeah... we... jus moved in today," She said, "What's your name?"

"Uh, Greg."

"I'm... I'm... Hey look! A cigarette! Can I have a drag?" He handed it to her and she took a long puff before giving it back, "I'm Gwinnie... I mean Gwen!"

"Well... it's, uh... nice to meet you, then... Gwen."

" You're hot. A bit old... for... me. But... really, _really_ hot." She took him to the door of 222C and walked her fingers up his chest as she spoke.

"Uh... old? Hot? Well, um... thanks, I gue-" Before he could finish his sentence, she reached up and kissed him wildly on the lips, her arms wound tightly around his neck. He wasn't sure how to react, so he let her, partially enjoying the way she felt. She then pulled away.

"You'll do."

"For what?!" He could not believe what was happening. His wife had just left him again and now this beautiful American blonde shows up out of nowhere and snogs him!

"Come over sometime... Greg." She said without answering and then walked into the closed door, hitting her head. He had to help her open the lock and she went inside.

He came back down the steps, scratching his head, and then snubbed out his cigarette on the concrete sidewalk.

"Right." He said to himself, "Gotta talk to Holmes."

* * *

Sherlock was peering out of the window, holding the curtain back with his violin bow.

"I see Ms. Adler knows our new neighbors." He said to John, who was sitting on the sofa, watching some late night telly. He stood and walked over to him to also take a look outside. Down below, two girls were exiting Speedy's. One was tall with long brown locks, her long slender arm hung loosely over the latter, who was of average height with blonde hair that skimmed her shoulders.

"Oh, the blonde one there, I went out with her earlier. Her name's Melissa." John responded, returning to his seat.

"Really, now? Hm. I wonder how she is acquainted with Irene." Sherlock replied, swiftly withdrawing his bow, allowing the thick tan curtains to fall heavily against the window. He turned abruptly to his companion.

"What I want to know is why in hell Irene bought the café. Or why she's engaged. I thought she enjoyed all that dominatrix business?"

Holmes took in a sharp breath, as though he were about to answer, but instead shrugged slightly before picking up his violin where it lay on the wooden chair beside him. He decidedly resumed the song he had been so engrossed in previous to the girls' interruption.

John raised an eyebrow at his friend, knowing that there was no use in asking him to explain his odd ways. He was quite accustomed to them by that point.

John found himself dozing off to Sherlock's composition. It was not until two hours later, when there was a knock on the door, that both men were brought back to reality; Sherlock from his mind palace and John from his dreams.

Watson rushed to the front of the room in a sleepy stupor and opened the door to a weary looking Lestrade, who strode in without saying hello.

"Sherlock, we need to talk." He demanded. Sherlock, unaffected by the urgency in the detective inspector's voice, put his violin gingerly into its case and crossed his arms, the bow sticking out from under the inside of his elbow.

"Yes, yes. Employer problems. Tell the superintendent that the suspicions he has concerning his wife and her accountant are right on par."

"How the hell-?"

"Did I know that? Simple, really. I was at the station earlier and overheard dearest Donovan spouting off about it to the other officers."

"Holmes, you are-"

"Brilliant? Yes, I know."

"I was thinking more along the lines of 'impossible'."

"Nonsense. I am not impossible. Just difficult." Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, twirling the violin bow between his fingers, his cold, knife-sharp eyes resting unblinkingly on the older man.

"I'll say." John muttered under his breath. Sherlock shot him a displeased glance and Greg, too distraught to notice the exchange, continued.

"Holmes, you can't go about telling people that their wives are having an affair! It isn't- it isn't- uh..."

"Morally correct?"

"Yeah, that's the term. Anyway, you can't keep insulting _every_ person on _every_ bloody case, Sherlock! It makes _me_ look bad, it makes the _Scotland Yard_ look bad, and it makes _you_ look bad." Lestrade fumed, pointing his finger wildly at every subject he mentioned.

"You were smoking tonight."

"What?! Holmes, that has nothing to do with what I've been talking about! Are you even listening?! If the behavior you displayed today continues, I can't allow you at crime scenes anymore!"

"It has everything to do with what we were discussing. You stopped smoking around the time I met you, so why would you suddenly decide to light up now? Obviously stress from work. And what other than a stern talking to from an overbearing employer would induce that much distress? And yes, Lestrade, I have been listening. Back to the main point you are attempting to make; you told me that I could do what I needed to solve your cases. It has not been an issue over the past few years, so I can't imagine why it would suddenly turn into one now."

"Holmes, you're latest methods have been borderline absurd."

"That's ridiculous!" Sherlock scoffed, "My "methods" always end with positive results. How is that absurd?"

"Oh, really? You were _punched_ in the _face_ today, Sherlock. Granted, the man was the killer, but that doesn't excuse your proddings at Mrs. Ferguson, or the emotional damage I'm sure you caused."

"Emotional damage?" Holmes asked with an empty laugh, "If the woman could cheat on her husband, I'm sure she can find another man."

Lestrade sighed heavily and put a hand to his forehead.

"Listen, Holmes, we have been colleagues for years now. I'm only trying to save our arses-"

"Correction; you are trying to save _yours_. Don't even attempt to disguise your motives, Lestrade. You know very well that I can see right through them." He replied fiercely, forcing Greg to take a few steps back with several furious prods of his bow.

"Now Holmes, I-" Lestrade began nervously.

"How's your wife?"

"Ex-excuse me?" The inspector questioned in bewilderment.

"How. Is. Your. Wife. Simple inquiry, Lestrade, even for you."

"She's, uh, she's goo-"

"Gone. You've been with another woman tonight. A very young woman. I could tell from the perfume. She was also intoxicated, what with the various alcoholic beverages that exude from your mouth. You yourself are not even buzzed."

"Holmes!" John barked.

"Holmes, I- I-" Lestrade stuttered.

"Now that everything's been settled, send over the evidence from last week's case by tomorrow afternoon. Your men are obviously too incompetent to trace a bloody weapon." Sherlock demanded, pushing the flabbergasted Lestrade through the door.

"But- but-"

"Bye, Lestrade. I'll be expecting you tomorrow." Sherlock replied, shoving him out of the apartment.

Lestrade turned to say something, but Holmes slammed the door in his face.

"He really has a point, you know." Said John quietly, sitting in an arm chair, "You've been in a reckless state of mind lately."

"Reckless? Hm." He turned away from the closed door and then plopped down on the sofa.

"So... you're going to trace that switchblade from the Turner investigation?" John inquired, wanting to change the subject, so as to ease out of the tension that lingered in the room. He'd never seen Lestrade like that. He would have to find him and apologize on Holmes's behalf later.

"What?" Sherlock asked, lost in his inspection of his bow, "Oh, right. No. I am not."

"So, you're involving the-"

"Irregulars? Yes. They are almost professional in their knowledge of such matters." He replied in a bored tone.

"Right."

The two men spent the rest of their evening in silence.

* * *

It was the afternoon following the case and Lestrade found himself returning to Baker Street to give Sherlock the evidence that he had so bluntly demanded. Lestrade was angry. He had tried everything to convince Sherlock of his inappropriate behavior, but the man mentally cut him to shreds. It was embarrassing.

He dropped off the blade from the crime scene and was about to grab some lunch when he suddenly remembered the girl that had kissed him the night before.

_What was her name? _He thought, _Jenny? No. Gabby? Not that... G- something. Gwen! That's it!_

He decided to take her up on her offer to "come over sometime" and went to her flat.

* * *

"I'll get it!" I yelled up to Melissa from my seat on the couch before I jumped up and ran to the door at the sound of a knock.

Standing before me was a tall man in black slacks, a faded sky-blue button up, and a black tie. Judging by the amount of gray in his hair and the slight wrinkles in the creases of his brown eyes, he was in his early forties. I could tell by his clothing that he was a professional; a high ranking police official with how he carried himself. He was a handsome man and it was obvious that he worked out and took very good care of his appearance.

"Hello?" I said in confusion. Why did he look so familiar?

"Ello, Gwen. It's me, uh, Greg." He answered with an attractive half smile. It suddenly clicked.

"Oh! You're the guy from last night!" I exclaimed. I was surprised he was back, to be honest.

"Yeah, well, I was just running some errands and thought I could convince you to lunch."

"Oh. Wow. Um... yeah! Sorry, I'm a bit under-dressed..." I said of my casual attire. I was only in a pair of black sweatpants and a grey tank top, my red toenail polish glittering off of my bare feet.

"You're fine. Come on, then!"

"I don't know..."

"Don't make me beg." He said with a chuckle.

"Alright, but if people make fun of me for looking so out of place, I blame you, kay?"

"Fine by me." He replied, holding out his arm for me to take. I giggled once, put on a pair of flip-flops from the basket beside the door, grabbed his hand, and we strolled out onto the busy street.

* * *

I was searching frantically around my apartment for my cell phone. I had to call my mom and tell her everything was alright, that I was settled in well, and the fact I already had a new boyfriend. And that he was a doctor.

Winnie was sitting at the kitchen counter with a bowl of cereal, watching the TV we had. "Winnie? Have you seen my phone around? I haven't seen it since I came home last night." I asked, searching in the couch cushions, under tables, and even in every kitchen cupboard.

Sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night to get something to eat, and with the obsession I had grown with my phone, I brought it everywhere, so I might have possibly left it in the cabinet or something.

"Did you leave it at the restaurant?" she suggested with a mouthful of cereal. I looked at her in disgust.

"What?!" she questioned.

"Chew your food! You're an animal!" I joked.

She chuckled to herself, "I know." She said, and winked at me. We burst into a short fit of laughter.

"But anyway, I couldn't have left my phone at the restaurant because I remember replying to one of your texts while on my way back from the restaurant in the taxi." I partially thought to myself, but she just shrugged, too immersed in the BBC network.

"This is one of the reasons why I've always wanted to live here." Winnie said as I continued to frantically search the apartment, referring to the BBC network we would watch on the internet back in America because they didn't offer it there.

I just rolled my eyes and continued to look for my phone. Then I realized that I had left it in John's flat. The first thing we did when I got into his apartment was head for the couch to make out. I had my phone in my hand and I put it down on a coffee table nearby. I was so lost in his soft lips, I didn't think to remember my phone.

"Hey, I'll be right back." I said to Winnie. She was too amazed by the show that she didn't even reply. Addie came out of the bathroom.

"Where are you going?" The brunette asked.

"I'm going over to John's." I replied, running out the door with my purse and slamming it shut in a hurry.

On my way over, I ran into Mrs. Hudson, "Hi, Mrs. H! Is John home?"

"Oh, come back for seconds, I presume?" She chuckled.

I laughed, "Not really. I just-"

"I was your age too, dearie. Don't think for a second I don't know anything about young people's hormones." She winked at me, continuing on her way.

I looked off to the side awkwardly and then turned to Mrs. Hudson. "So I'm guessing he's not home?" I called out to her, but she didn't answer. With a shrug of my shoulders, I continued to John's apartment.

I knocked several times, but no one answered. The door was unlocked, so I walked in, thinking John was home, but the living room was empty.

There was nothing but the disorganization of the many papers on the right side of the room, the running laptop, the mantle with the giant mirror above it, and the strange yellow smiley face drawn out with bullet holes on the wall over the couch.

I looked over near the coffee table and on it lay my iPhone. I began to walk over to it but someone- a wet, slippery someone- bumped right into me. I turned to face them but I screamed and turned around quickly, covering my eyes. He was a tall, lean man with medium length, curly black-brown hair. His eyes were as blue as mine and the only thing he was wearing was a towel wrapped around his waist which had fallen down when I bumped into him.

The way the light hit his eyes made them turn almost a whitish green color. It was amazing.

"What are you doing in my apartment? Are you a client? Don't you know all clients have to knock?" He questioned, his low, monotone British accent bounced off the walls.

"I-I left my phone here." I explained, still shielding my eyes with a nervous tone to my voice.

"Oh, so _you're_ the one dating John, eh? You can turn back around." He said. I did and the towel was back on his waist.

I tried keeping my eyes on his face. "Uh, yeah." I answered.

"Oh god, not another one." He complained, turning around in a circle with his hand over his eyes, looking stressed.

"Excuse me?" I asked as he made his way over to one of the chairs near the fire place, still in his towel.

He lazily slumped in the chair with his arms spread out over the back of it. "But you seem different. I can tell by the way you turned around when my towel fell. Most women would have stopped and stared." He scoffed, examining my presence, or more likely, my body.

I squinted my eyes at him. "Well, I'm not like other girls," I said, crossing my arms, "It's hard to decipher who I am."

"Do you know who _I_ am?" He replied, standing up.

"Annoying?" I joked, putting my hands on my hips, trying not to laugh at my own insult and trying not to seem intimidated by his height.

"Ouch. Close, but no cigar. I am Sherlock Holmes. Can't you tell?" He asked, spinning around, showcasing himself.

"Who?" I raised my eyebrows and squinted at him in confusion.

He slumped his shoulders. "Hmph. You've never heard of me?" He asked, looking almost defeated, "You haven't seen me in the papers? I just solved a bloody well case that should be all over London by now."

"Sorry, no," I said, shrugging my shoulders, "but I'm guessing you're some detective?" I was unsure but sure at the same time.

"That's easy. But I know who _you_ are." He said with a small smirk. His smile made me weak in the knees, and almost looked competitive.

"Oh do you, now?" I challenged, "I'm sure John has mentioned me."

"Yes, I do. And he never shuts up about you." He rolled his eyes, "It's become quite bothersome, but I've learned to tune it out." He walked back and forth with his hands behind his back.

"That's great, now can you get on something a little more than a towel? Please?" I asked.

"You're a virgin."

I jumped at his sudden assumption, "That is none of your busine-"

"I can tell because you're uncomfortable with my lack of clothing." He gave me another one his weak-in-the-knees smirks.

"I've always been uncomfortable with nudity." I laughed nervously.

"Sure." He rolled his eyes, not believing me.

"Okay, what else do you know about me?" I crossed my arms with a "bring it" smile.

"So it _is_ true." He chuckled.

I rolled my eyes and then waited for him to speak.

"Well," he began, pacing about the room, studying me, "taken by the crumbs on your shirt, you had a bagel this morning. No, two bagels. You didn't get any sleep last night. New country, new home, new boyfriend. It must be so stressful. You bite your nails constantly, telling me that you're a nervous person, always under stress especially now because of everything new. You seem the kindhearted type. You don't dress daringly, but to your comfort and style. You have Osgood Schlatters in your knees because I can see your kneecaps even when you stand with locked legs. You crack your fingers on a daily basis because of the size of your knuckles. Damn, they are manly."

He grabbed my hand but I pulled it out of his grasp as he continued, "You play a stringed instrument. The calluses on your fingers are fresh. You played this morning. You've been playing for a while. Your tattoo looks to be only a couple of years old. Must have gotten it when you were... How old are you?"

"Twenty-two." I said under my breath, kind of shocked at how fast he was figuring me out; faster than I did in college.

"Twenty-two, so you were about eighteen when you got the tattoo. Smile for me?" He asked. I smiled slowly and sheepishly. "Good, close. You've never had braces before. Smile again? Ah, only some straightening on the bottom of your teeth. You haven't cut your hair in the past six months telling by your split ends. Your natural hair is curly. You straightened your hair last night before your date with John so you haven't taken a shower yet today. You've dyed your hair, but not recently. I can see your roots. Your hair is supposed to be a darker shade. You wear contacts, obviously. You've never smoked or drank in your life. You've lost a bit of weight over the years. You don't work out; I can tell by the lack of muscle in your arms. You're right-handed because your lower right arm muscle is larger than your lower left one. You're a very sarcastic person and you enjoy humor but you're not that funny. You're really not that smart and you're favorite animal is a turtle." He finished.

The silence in the room was deafening. I couldn't believe he figured everything out. Especially the things I haven't even told John. It's like Sherlock and I were a married couple by all the stuff he knew about me already. We'd only been in the same room for about... ten minutes?

I didn't even realize I was backed up against the wall and our foreheads were practically touching. I could feel his cool breath on my face and the intensity in the room put a million pounds of pressure on my body. I could feel my face burning up. I had to kill the silence some way. "How did you know I like turtles?" I asked.

He shifted his eyes to my purse near the door. "You're keychain says 'I Love Turtles'." He said in a whisper, almost like we were lost in each other's eyes. Well, I know I was.

I didn't want him to know how impressed I was, so I did the same thing I always did when I wanted to feel superior. I pinched his cheek and said, "You're so cute!" Then I walked away to grab my phone, going out the door with my purse.

I bumped into John and gave him a quick peck on the lips, "Hey, babe," and continued for my apartment, still in utter shock at how brilliant Sherlock Holmes was.

* * *

She walked away from Sherlock's barricade and grabbed her phone off the side table before she made her way out the door, not forgetting her purse.

John came in right after she had left. "Uh, what was Melissa doing here?" He asked in confusion.

"Cute? Did she just call me _cute_?" Sherlock asked himself, placing his hand on his cheek where she had last touched him. He had a warm and fuzzy feeling.

"And uh, why are you in only a towel?" John asked with concern.

"Oh, shut up, John!" Sherlock demanded as he sauntered off, shutting the bathroom door behind him. He needed to go into his mind palace. _After all of that, she called me cute? It doesn't make any sense. I was being a complete arse to her, yet she called me cute._ He thought to himself.

He looked into the bathroom mirror and studied his features.

"Cute. I'm not cute. Am I?" He thought out loud.

Sherlock poked his head out to see John sitting on the couch with a newspaper, "John, am I cute?"

John looked up from his newspaper, "Cute?"

"Yeah, am I _cute_?"

"Do I have to answer that?" John asked, feeling almost a bit uncomfortable, putting his newspaper down.

"Yes, John. Tell me if I'm cute or not!" Sherlock barked.

"Yes, you're… cute?" John answered, and hid his face with the newspaper in embarrassment.

And with that, Sherlock hid back in the bathroom. John was still confused and shook his head, "He's acting a bit strange this morning."

Sherlock looked back in the mirror. His dark, curly hair was beginning to dry. What did Melissa find so cute about his light eyes and high cheek bones?

"She was the cute one. With her short blonde hair and ocean blue eyes, you'd think she was a goddess. Yeah, she was easy to figure out, but she was so simple and sweet. She wasn't looking for attention like most people when they're in the presence of a celebrity." Sherlock thought out loud.

This girl was special. Special to _him_. She was... his new distraction.


	7. Chapter 4: A New Acquaintance

He woke up barely before sunrise (a usual thing to occur, what with his insomnia) to see that he was not alone in his bed. His memory served to say he'd fallen asleep alone the previous night. Yet, when he opened his eyes, she was there beside him.

Antoinette looked groggily up at him, her blue eyes screaming "I love you!". It hadn't been what he expected to wake up to, but it fit his needs better than what he had.

"Good morning, beautiful." He said behind his classic shell of lies.

Her eyes brightened instantly, coinciding with the rosy blush of her cheeks.

"Bonjour, mon amour."

"You know I love you, right? And that I would do anything to be with you?"

She nodded slightly to show her agreement.

"Would _you_ do anything to be with _me_?"

"Of course." She replied, her lovely French accent blending evenly with her confusion.

"And what if someone tried to stand in the way? We couldn't let them do that, could we?"

She knew he was going somewhere with this, but where was more lost on her than Columbus on his expedition.

"We… couldn't let that happen."

"Well, your husband is in the way. How could I marry you if you are already legally wed?"

"W-what are you saying, Jim?" She implored, fearing the worst.

"Exactly what you are thinking, but are too scared to speak aloud. He's in the way of our love and that is unacceptable." He was now propped up on one elbow, staring "lovingly" into her eyes.

"Jim, you're not going to… kill him?" Her last two words were said in a whisper.

"No, Antoinette, I won't. But if you love me- _really_ love me and _only_ me- _you_ will."

She was in utter shock and had no idea how to respond to such a request. Could she really kill her husband of four years? Even if it was for Jim, did she have the heart to murder a man? One that loved her, no less?

"Antoinette, you have to do this. Please?" His eyes glistened with tears that had yet to fall, "For me?"

"I-I-I will do it, Jim… For you." No matter how much she loved Jacque when they first married, Jim was her only true love. She _had_ to kill her spouse.

"Alright. You can accomplish this, darling. You're brave enough. Now here is what you do…"

* * *

Melissa and I headed over to Speedy's café, the noon sun perforating the thick London air, to finally meet Irene's employee, Eddy. It had been two weeks since we moved to Baker Street and all three of us (meaning Liss, Addie, and I) had new boyfriends and new lives. Addison was the only one with a job, but that was soon to change.

"So… he's a musician, huh?" Mel asked me, scratching the tip of her nose as we walked. She always told me that she hated her nose. I never knew why, though; it suited her perfectly and gave more originality to her already one-of-a-kind features.

"Apparently."

"I wonder if he's any good."

"I wonder if he's cute." I said with a mischievous grin.

"Winnie! You have a boyfriend!" I was curious as to why she was so appalled. I mean, it was _me_ we were talking about. I was a flirt.

"I was joking." I lied casually.

"Speaking of boyfriends, you gotta meet John. He's really cool."

"Well, it'll happen soon enough. Have you told him all about me yet?"

"No… Only your name."

"Why's that?" I was a little surprised. She always gushed about me to her beaus.

"Um…" She replied, going a bit red, "I just… haven't brought you up."

"Have you fucked him?" I interrogated.

"What?! No! Never! I mean, not yet, anyway!" She exclaimed, looking down at her feet in what I could only guess was embarrassment. I choked out a laugh before I spoke.

"Alright then, Virgin Mary. Just making sure your nun-ship was still intact." I teased with a wink.

"Ha. Ha. Ha. You're so funny." She said sarcastically.

I shrugged my shoulders as we neared the door and opened it for her.

"Ladies first." I added with a deep, aristocratic British accent, bowing and motioning to the entrance.

"You're so _weird_, Winn." She replied with a laugh, heading inside.

"Yes, Liss, We've established that _years_ ago."

As soon as I entered the small café, I saw that the platform Irene had mentioned was set up on the back wall of the building, adjacent to the bar. There, underneath a small spotlight, was a very attractive man, no older than myself, with his lips against a microphone on its stand.

As I neared the small stage, I could see that his black hair was shaved close to his head and his almond shaped eyes were closed, lost in the notes. He was singing a Blues song that was unfamiliar to me, but it had a distinct Southern feel to it; one you'd hear in the bars of Louisiana.

He finished the tune with a long, loud note that I could feel in the soles of my feet; in my gut. He then leapt off of the platform and walked over to us with a blinding smile that contrasted perfectly against his mocha colored skin. He was dressed comfortably in a blue t-shirt that stated "Crown the King", large matching Vans, and fitted black jeans.

"Hello, fellow Americans!" He greeted warmly, his accent most definitely Southern. His voice had a playful, almost palpable tone; filled with a promise of laughter in the moments to come. It was smooth and measured, as though he had never stuttered in his life. He could probably be cursing and yelling and he would _still_ put a pleasant tingle in my spine. It was the voice of a public speaker, or better yet, a radio personality.

"Howdy." I replied with my best Texan accent.

"Oh, shawty, you from the South, too?"

"Mhmm. I come from the Lone Star State, sugar."

"Really, now? Whereabouts? I come all the way from New Orleans."

"Here and there. Born in Cleburne, raised in Temple, and lived in Fredericksburg. That is, till I moved to the Big Apple." I replied, dropping my accent completely when I said the last sentence. He laughed whole-heartedly, the sound ringing nicely in my ears.

"I'm guessing you're Gwen, then, huh? And you are?" He asked Liss.

"Oh, I'm Melissa. Nice to meet you." She said with a smile. He nodded to her.

"Well, from what I've heard from Bean-"

"Bean?" I questioned with a giggle.

"Oh, yeah, my nickname for Irene. Long story. Anyway, she told me y'all can sing and though I believe her, I gotta hear for myself."

"Okay!" Liss and I replied in unison.

"Well, which one of you fine ladies would like to go first?" He asked, crossing his lean, muscular arms. I pointed to Melissa, who gave me a wide-eyed stare, shaking her head as I pushed her up the steps of the miniature stage.

"No, no, no! I need my guitar!"

"Oh, honey, I don't bite. Come on! I have my own guitar right here." He said, gesturing to a case that lay on the floor beside the platform. Melissa sighed and Eddy handed her the stringed instrument. It was sleek and black, with his full name, "Edward Lincoln Jones", painted in dark purple cursive on the back.

"Oh, wow!" Mel gushed, looking down at it in awe, "This guitar is gorgeous!"

"Thanks, honey. Now, what are ya gonna sing for me?" He said, taking a seat at the nearest table. I took to a chair beside him as Melissa thought for a moment.

"Hmm… How about… "Back to December"?"

"Oh, Shawty, I just _love_ T-Swizzle! That girl is amazing."

"You call her that, too?" Mel laughed and then tuned the guitar to her liking before she began. I listened to her lovely voice as I watched for Eddy's reaction. I could tell from the smile on his lips that he was enjoying it as much as I was.

She ended the song with a few strums of Eddy's guitar and looked nervously at him, awaiting his opinion.

"Melissa, you were _awesome_, honey! We will definitely be collaborating together!"

"Thanks! Yay!" She said brightly, putting his guitar carefully into its case.

He pointed to me, "You're turn, sugar."

I smiled and hopped onto the stage, grabbing the microphone and taking it off its stand.

"I'll sing "Blinding" by Florence and the Machine." I told him as Melissa sat down at the table.

"Alright, baby. Need music?"

"Nah, I'll do a cappella."

He nodded and I allowed the soundless music to course through me, feeling it in my fingertips. I counted silently the beats and let the notes float through the air, keeping in mind the slow, eerie tone.

When I finished, I looked down at Eddy, mentally preparing myself for whatever response he may give. I had spent my life in and out of auditions, so I knew what and what not to expect.

"Darlin'…" He said slowly, "That was… _amazing_! I got myself some talented girls up in here! Ain't I lucky?"

The three of us laughed as I jumped off the platform.

"Well, I gotta run to the little girls' room real quick." Melissa said suddenly and scurried off, leaving Eddy and I alone. He walked close to me and I could smell his cologne. Old Spice. It was delectable.

"So, sugar, how about we go to dinner or lunch sometime and get to know each other?" He asked, sticking a thumb through his belt loop.

"Oh, I'm flattered," I said, Greg suddenly popping into my head, "but I have a boyfriend. Sorry."

He burst into a cackling fit, doubling over in his hysteria. I took a step back, unsure of his sanity, "What's so funny?"

"Oh, honey," He answered, straightening himself and catching his breath, "I'm gay. I was only wondering if you wanted to hang out. But that's real funny, baby."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I had absolutely no idea." I replied, flushing ever so slightly at my mistake. How could I not tell? I had _wonderful_ gaydar!

"Nah, its fine. Nobody thinks it at first, but it sure as hell cracks me up."

"Well, I'd love to chill with you sometime, Eddy." I told him, my embarrassment fading as quickly as it had come.

At that moment, Melissa returned and approached us.

"And I'll have dinner with her." He said, jabbing his thumb in her direction.

"Excuse me?" She questioned in bewilderment, "Dinner? Sorry, but I'm taken. Why didn't you tell him that, Gwen?"

Eddy and I exchanged a knowing glance and chuckled. She looked between us in confusion. Eddy sighed and shook his head.

"What? What'd I miss?"

"Gay." He and I said this at the same time and Melissa found herself going twice as red as I had a few minutes before.

"I-I'm s-sorry." She stuttered, "I didn't think-"

"Look, don't worry about it, sugar. We can all go out together sometime." He checked his Rolex, "Well, I better go. I've gotta DJ tonight. See y'all."

"Bye!" Melissa and I replied, following him outside of Speedy's. He locked the door and kissed us both on the cheek before flagging down a taxi. After he left, Liss and I looked at each other and just laughed.

"Well, that was unexpected… Hungry?"

She nodded, smiling, and we made our way home.

* * *

He walked into the conference room on his cell, the air changing from light and neutral to heavy and fearful.

"I don't care what you have to do to get it! If that Russian bastard doesn't give it to you willfully, force him to! So help me god, if you fuck this up, your wife won't be the only one I put six feet under!" His maroon Blackberry hit the wall with the entirety of his strength, "DAMMIT, KEVIN! GET ME A NEW CELLPHONE!"

"Y-yes, Mr. J." Kevin stuttered pitifully.

"Why so... _serious_, hm?" Mr. J responded, dragging his fingernail from the corner of Kevin's mouth up to his ear before bursting into a cynical fit of laughter. The whole room laughed along with him nervously.

"So what's the latest news on the Berlin plans?" Mr. J asked, more concerned with his clicky pen than the topic at hand. He took a seat in the swivel chair before him, spinning around several times as he awaited a reply.

"Well, um… Mr. J… About the-" The other man's hands slammed down on the conference table, loud enough to make everyone in the room jump.

"What's the _problem_, Kevin?" His voice lacked its usual apathy, sounding almost… caring. To anyone who knew Mr. J well, this was far scarier than anger. But Kevin did not know him well, and therefore mistook his tone for what it seemed.

"Someone by the name of James Moriarty. Intel has informed us that he's a "consulting criminal". Brilliant guy. Our plans interfered with his, so he both disarmed our bomb and bugged the systems. Mr. Big Cheese London Boy's got us by the short hairs." Mr. J did not seem to appreciate the informality of how Kevin spoke, so he pulled out a gun and shot the man clean between the eyes without hesitation or remorse.

"Gentlemen," He began, pocketing his firearm, "that was a simple solution to an annoying problem. Here's another: instead of competing with this Moriarty fellow, I am going to slowly and personally kill him. Any questions?"

Having just witnessed Mr. J cold-bloodedly murder his own assistant, no one spoke.

"Good." He said, satisfied with their submission.

* * *

John and I decided to stay close to the apartment and give Speedy's a visit. Although it was a rather small café, I enjoyed the coziness of it. I never really drank any coffee, but John got me one anyways. I drank it forcefully, adding more sugar every time. I had such a terrible sweet tooth.

"What, you don't like coffee?" John asked, looking at me, and then at the half empty sugar box. I used more than half of the sugar packets. It just couldn't get sweet enough for me.

I swallowed a sip of coffee with a bit of a struggle. It still tasted bitter.

"No, not really." My face was scrunched up.

John chuckled softly to himself, "You're adorable when you do that."

I blushed, "Thanks," and I leaned over the table to kiss him gently on the cheek.

He blushed himself, "So, tell me about your friends I've yet to meet."

"Which one would you like me to describe first?" I asked, cradling my head in my hands.

"Whoever you want." He answered, leaning forward and mirroring my position.

I sat up, "Well, Addie is the "Amazon Queen", cause, you know, she's like five foot ten, has really long hair, and she's just exotic-looking to all men. I love her to death."

"Alright, well tell me about the other one. What's her name?"

"Gwen." I smiled, "We call her Winnie, Addie and I. She's smart, has a great sense of humor, is an amazing writer, and sometimes _I'm_ even jealous of her. She's incredibly beautiful, and she's everything I could ever ask for in a friend. We met when I was in middle school and we just clicked. I still remember that day like it was yesterday. It was my first day of middle school and I was scared shitless. I couldn't find a seat so I aimlessly walked back and forth on the bus looking for one. Then Winnie said, "Hi! I'm Gwen! Wanna sit with me?" and I shyly introduced myself and sat beside her. She was wearing a yellow shirt and jeans. Her jewelry was perfectly proportionate and her hair was in a long braid. I was jealous of her hair, her eyes, her sense of humor, how clever she was, but I was lucky enough to have her as a best friend, so I never really let it bother me. She's a smartass though, and she knows it, so she flaunts it whenever she can. So yeah, that's Gwen."

"You know, she reminds me of someone." John spoke, "A very stubborn someone."

"Who?" I asked out of curiosity.

"Sherlock." He chuckled, gazing out the window and then back at me.

"I can see where you're coming from, but she's not rude, self centered or-" I stopped, trying think of another trait Sherlock had that Gwen didn't, but I couldn't, "Yeah, she's not rude or self centered. But she _does_ have a 'tude. She can make any amount of people in any type of room shut up if she wanted to."

John smirked, "I say we set up Sherlock and Gwen."

I sat up straight in my chair, "That's crazy! Gwen could never put up with Sherlock! She'd tear him down bit from bit."

"Good. Maybe he'll develop human emotions."

I couldn't help but giggle, "Oh, John. You always know how to make me laugh." I smiled.

He blushed a bright pink and leaned over the table to kiss me softly on the lips. He sat back down and quickly looked at his wristwatch before groaning.

"Alright, love. I've got to head out. Got a late shift at the clinic." He said, standing up and grabbing his coat off the back of the chair.

"Aw." I complained, "Already?"

"Yes, Melissa. I'll call you later?" He asked, slipping on his coat as I stood up.

"Alright, babe, sounds good." I kissed him on the cheek, then the lips, and he was gone.

* * *

John left the restaurant with a sudden bounce to his step, an idea sprouting like an infant tree in his mind.

Melissa had told him about Gwen.

From what he could tell, she was beautiful, eccentric, and most of all, _clever_.

Sherlock needed a companion. Not like John, though. A _woman_. He needed a woman who could not only attract his attention, but could intellectually challenge him.

The idea took root when Melissa spoke about her. She adored her and seemed to hold her in utmost regard.

He was going to do it. He was going to get Holmes a _girlfriend_. He was going to attempt to elicit human emotion out of the world's most apathetic man.

The very thought made John smile.

* * *

So I was going to meet Melissa's new boyfriend, John, and his flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. Who names their kid _Sherlock_? A strange name, even if it was British.

And apparently I was the only one who didn't know these two. Greg worked with them, Connor saw them on occasion, Irene was acquainted with them, and even Addison had bumped into them.

I was a little apprehensive about meeting this Sherlock character. Greg liked him well enough, but told me that he was full of himself and liked to make everyone else look stupid. He was a genius and a freak. The type that hopes a crime would happen just so he could solve it.

But then I realized that I would be the same way. He had extreme skill and wanted to show it off to the world. That was understandable enough. Plus, people get bored; especially smart people. I often had the same problem.

According to Lissie, we were going to head over to their apartment around five for dinner. I threw my hair into a messy bun, clumsily danced into my old cutoff jean shorts, and put on a t-shirt before slipping into my gray flip-flops. After a three minute mental debate, I decidedly put my contacts in so I could wear my giant shades. After applying mascara and grabbing my cherry chapstick, I put on the treble clef necklace that coincided with Lissa's two eighth notes charm and Addie's singular eighth note. I had bought them for us in high school (a bit of a late birthday gift for Mel), and we have worn them ever since.

I ran down the stairs, grabbed the banister and leapt off the bottom step, swinging myself into the living room. I flew a couple of feet and tripped over my own shoes as I landed, which sent me tumbling to the floor. I looked up to see Melissa standing over me, laughing hysterically at my stupidity. I got up and dusted myself off, joining in.

"You're an idiot, Winn," She said as I gave her a goofy grin, "and thanks again for cancelling your plans tonight. I just really wanted you to meet John. He's so sweet! I know you'll like him!"

The plans she referred to was the dinner date I was supposed to have with Greg.

"Yeah, you better be sorry." I teased.

I could have cared less about the date. I liked Greg and all, but he could be really boring at times. And since I was also much younger than him, it almost felt like he only wanted me for sex. Which was fine with me. I enjoyed his company, but I honestly saw no hope in a long lasting relationship. He was the detective inspector of the Scotland Yard and spent most of his time at work. I figured I should end it before things got serious, knowing that I didn't want either of us to get too attached.

"Let's go." She replied with a roll of her eyes. We were about to head over when I realized I left my purse, so I moon-walked back into the room to get it and then sprinted out the door after Melissa.

I met her at the front of our neighbors' flat, lightly knocking on the door.

"Well that isn't loud enough!" I exclaimed, raising my fist to pound on the thick black wood of 221B. Before my knuckles hit the door, Mrs. Hudson, the sweet old lady who I had met one morning whilst walking into Speedy's, opened it. I dropped my arm, letting it swing at my side.

"Oh, hello Mrs. Hudson." Liss and I responded in unison. We followed her up the stairs as she chattered on.

"The boys are waiting, loves. Oh, Gwen, they can't wait to meet you!"

"Oh my." I exhaled. The landlady did not seem to notice my wariness, but Melissa did.

"What's the matter?" She asked in a whisper.

"Nothin." I reassured her, tugging at the hem of my shirt as Mrs. Hudson opened the door.

When we entered the living room, the first thing I noticed was that it was a bit smaller than ours. Then I saw the smiley face painted on the wall, several bullet holes tracing it with perfect precision and aim. I then acknowledged the slight disarray of papers and books, the two small armchairs, one with a pillow decorated with the British flag, and a large sofa.

The couch was occupied by two men, completely opposite in looks and stature, yet they somehow balanced each other out. They were definitely good friends. That much I could tell.

The one to my left was rather short, no taller than myself, with navy colored eyes and dark blonde hair that was not far off from my original color. The way he quickly jumped up to greet us and the tense, careful way he carried himself breathed military. When we shook hands, I noticed that his grip was gentle, yet precise and professional.

"Hello, I'm John." He said with a pleasant smile. A people-person without a doubt, though a bit shy with strangers. I would have gone so far as to say he was a ladies' man. Most definitely a Libra.

The other man remained in his seat, looking completely disinterested in his present company, crossing his pajama-clad legs.

"Hey, were you a medic in the military?" I asked. John looked stunned. The latter raised a thin eyebrow at me.

"Why, yes. I was an army doctor, actually." He replied, giving Melissa a questioning look.

"She does that sometimes." She shrugged.

"Sorry, I'm-"

"Gwendolyn. We know." The other man cut in with a deep, silky voice. He stood up and straightened his robe. He was at least six feet tall, very thin, with dark brown curls, high cheekbones, and icy blue eyes that seemed to look right through me.

"And _you_ are Sherlock Holmes."

"Who else could I be?" He replied curtly.

We fell silent, cutting through each other with our unwavering stares. Melissa and John glanced at each other, uncomfortable in the thickened quiet, before Liss pointed to the entrance of what could only be the kitchen. John nodded.

"We'll help Mrs. Hudson with dinner."

"Yeah, we'll be in the other room when you two are… done here." John added.

"Of course." We replied in unison. Melissa and her boyfriend left the room, seemingly in awe of my and Sherlock's reaction to one another upon meeting for the first time. He began to circle around me like a hawk.

"Greg told me you were a detective."

"_Consulting_ detective." He corrected coolly, "I knew I recognized the perfume you're wearing as what Lestrade smells of when he walks into the room. Aloe Barbadensis leaf juice would explain the scent and it also consists of hydrogenated castor oil and a high percentage of water, which can only mean that it is quite cheap."

"Ooh, impressive. What else can you tell me?"

"You're a director, more leaning towards theatre than film; you are not a natural blonde; you are wearing contacts. You paint, you are partially Native American, you have a slight case of scoliosis, you are a writer, the symbol tattooed on the back of your neck I can only assume is of your own design and spells out the word "dream", and you are a musician. You are left-handed, your shorts are originally men's pants that are about twenty years old, you were recently engaged, you have broken your smallest right finger within the last few years, you are klutzy, your clothing style varies and is unaffected by the media's influence, you think yourself clever, and you have a very loud and obnoxious personality." He listed all of these facts and traits so fast, I had to strain to catch it all. I was a bit offended by his lack of manners, but his brilliance dimmed my annoyance. I found him more fascinating than anything, even if he _was_ cocky.

"How did you get all of that?" I asked in wonder.

"So I was right about all of it? Oh, what am I saying? Of course I was right. I'm always right, you see. Anyway, I could tell you were a director because you carry yourself like one who is in charge, yet your casual mannerisms suggest a liberal arts career. You are one familiar with the stage; your facial expressions and the way you speak give that away. Your roots are darker than the rest of your hair. Very simple. The ring around your iris is quite noticeable and the way the light hit your eye was unnatural. You have dried paint under your fingernails. I could tell what your partial descent was by your high cheekbones and your skin takes well to the sun. The scoliosis is rather obvious. The ink stain on your palm not only suggests that you do a lot of writing, but that you are left-handed. The necklace you are wearing and the bass and treble clef tattoo on your right wrist shows that you are musically inclined. I can tell the age of your shorts by the worn fabric, as well as the fact that the brand has been terminated for years, they are men's pants by the way they fit on your hips, and they have been cut due to the fraying of the hem. Your right pinky finger is curved in at an odd angle, but you are not in pain. You have a chip on your tooth and several scars on your arms and legs, which points to the conclusion that you are either an athlete or a klutz, obviously the latter because your build shows no signs of training nor do you have large muscle mass compared to your body fat. I have seen you several times on the street and have observed that your choice of clothing is never of the same style and noted that you are often very loud. You recently broke off an engagement. How do I know this, you might ask? You have the look of someone who is running from the past, most likely a bad relationship, and why else would you move to London if you had a decent life in New York City? Simple deduction, really."

"Wow. But you missed a bit."

"And what might that be?" He looked surprised and angry.

"I don't just _think_ I'm clever, honey. I _am_ clever. Now," I said, rubbing my hands together deviously, "it's my turn."

"Your turn for what?"

"To dissect you, of course." I replied, closing the space between us, tearing him apart with my eyes.

"Like you could." He said, looking down at me skeptically.

"We'll just have to see about that, now won't we? You haven't slept in over 24 hours. The bags under your eyes. Dead giveaway."

"Had important cases to solve." He waved a hand dismissively.

"That or strung out on coke. You're an avid drug user. You use heroin, too, I suppose?"

"Does it matter? It helps me to think."

"And probably to escape from the stupidity of others. Anyway… you haven't brushed your hair or changed your clothes or even showered in the past few days."

"Hygiene is simply another worldly necessity I wish I could do without. Besides, no time to do anything when you are as busy as I."

"That's only part of the reason, isn't it? You wanted to prove something, didn't you?" I interrogated, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Perhaps." He replied casually, crossing his arms.

"You've never been in a relationship, have you?"

"What does that-?"

"Let me finish… Holmes. You are obviously a virgin and your social skills are not the best, as I've noticed. Considering the occupation that you have chosen, or should I say, created, your lack of manners, and your complete disregard of human emotion, I might go so far as to say that you are a sociopath."

"You are correct, but I've yet to see how any of what you are speaking of is even remotely germane to your idea that I am attempting to "prove something"."

"Well, if you knew how to keep your mouth shut for longer than two minutes at a time, perhaps I could tell you!"

He looked taken aback. There I was, a complete stranger, telling him to shut up while I picked him apart at the seams. I could tell that it didn't often happen to him- probably never happened to him- which amused me greatly. There's a first for everything, I suppose.

"Continue." He replied coolly, returning to the poker face he was previously wearing.

"Alrighty, then. So… John is obviously a good friend of yours and seems like the type of guy that would be concerned for your social well-being. I don't blame him because your lack of experience in the relationship area _is_ cause for concern. Anyway, when Melissa told him about me, he saw it as a chance for you to get your nose out of your work and attempt a girlfriend. Upon discovering your flatmate's plan, you did almost everything in your power to look as disheveled and unattractive as possible. I mean, look at those ratty pajamas!"

"Well, it doesn't really matter because you are dating Lestrade." He replied, looking very slightly defeated. I smiled at his displeasure.

"Pfft. Like _that's_ gonna last."

"He has grown feelings for you, you know."

"Ugh. Why do playthings always get so attached?" I joked. I suddenly realized how awful the question sounded. Oh, well. It was too late to take it back.

"That "plaything" happens to be a colleague of mine. And I am also repulsed by the very idea of dating _you_." He sneered.

"Who said _I_ wanted a boyfriend like _you_?" This was a bit of a lie. I mean, he was smart, cocky, _and_ gorgeous. Just my type.

"Well, even if you did, we're too different. It would never work."

"Got that right, kid. Where you see through people, I see _into_ them. But, I'm just as clever and equally as eccentric."

"And that is where the similarities end." He responded almost menacingly. I smirked and gave a low chuckle at his attempt to intimidate me. It was simply adorable, it really was.

"Um, guys," Liss said, coming into the room and glancing awkwardly at the two of us, "dinner's… ready."

"Wonderful. I'm starved." I replied and then broke away from our silent staring contest. I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of winning. I needed to blink and I blessed Lissa inwardly for her sudden interruption.

I walked briskly into the dining room with Melissa, Sherlock following behind, probably trying to recover from my verbal assault. We sat down as Mrs. Hudson brought in our plates and I braved a few glances at Sherlock, who kept his eyes on his dinner, to my disappointment.

But I did happen to catch John looking my way several times. I checked my reflection in my spoon in case I had food stuck in my teeth. Nope. Why was John staring at me like that? Was it because he hoped that Sherlock and I took a liking to each other? I was confused, but refused to act upon it, knowing it would make things awkward. I was good at that; _awkwardizing_ things.

I was also good at making up words.

Looking around at the people in front of me, I felt especially glad that I had moved. Yup, really glad.

* * *

Since Eddy was practically our favorite gay guy ever, we invited him over to our apartment for a movie night. Addie was out with our landlord, so it was just the three of us.

When we heard a gentle knock on the door, we rushed from the kitchen to answer it, pushing and shoving our way through the house. Winnie shoved me so hard against the wall, I had to stop for a moment, and she ended up answering the door with an enthusiastic, "Sup', Eddy!"

"Hey, girl!" he greeted, giving Winnie a hug. I limped over and Eddy embraced me in a hug and lifted me off the ground, then spun me in a circle before placing me back down. Which didn't help my back that was injured by Winnie's violent attack to answer the door.

"So what movie are we watching?" Eddy asked, slinging an arm around my shoulder, fixing a stray hair of mine.

I smiled up at Eddy, "It's definitely something we'll all enjoy."

I ran to the living room and grabbed the movie from the cabinet under the TV. They followed me to the living room and I hid the movie behind my back. "Ready?" I asked.

They both nodded their heads with an anxious grin. I swung the movie out from behind me and Eddy yelped, grabbed the movie, and embraced it against his chest. Winnie laughed at his reaction and I joined along with her. We've seen the movie,_ Magic Mike_, a dozen times, so this was no big deal for us.

"I've been meaning to watch this movie for _so_ long!" Eddy exclaimed, examining the movie's cover. "Channing Tatum is so delicious." He said, grazing his hands across the actor's picture.

I grabbed the movie from his grasp. "Ah, ah, ah." I stalled, "He's mine." I winked.

He scoffed, "Yeah, sure."

"Can we just watch the movie? I have popcorn!" Winnie interrupted our "battle". I smiled and ran to the couch and began to jump on it. "Hurry. Up." I said between bounces.

Eddy looked at me with a pair of raised eyebrows as I continued to jump and my curly hair fell from the bun and into my face. I tied my hair back up in a bun and then continued to jump. I heard the microwave beep and Winnie came skipping back into the living room a minute later.

"Get off my couch!" She scolded. I leapt off and she got right back on it and started to jump. "It's my turn." She said, sticking her tongue out.

I sat on the floor with crossed arms. "Not fair." I whined.

The entire time, Eddy was gawking at our insanity. We both looked at him. "What?" We said in unison.

"You guys are wild." He replied.

Winnie and I looked at each other, telepathically reminding each other to calm down and to try not to scare him. "But I love it!" He added enthusiastically with a giant grin.

We smiled back at him and he pulled me up off the ground by my hands and began to dance with me around the living room as Winnie put on some music from the stereo. "I'm Sexy and I Know It" blasted from the speakers and Eddy and I danced like Winnie and I would at a club. Winnie pranced around the room topless. I knew she had a bit to drink already tonight. I shouldn't have bought her that wine.

When the song ended, Eddy laughed, out of breath, "You guys are a lot of fun! We'll have to do this again sometime."

"Well, we still have to watch the movie." I exclaimed, skipping over to the DVD player, sitting on the ground in front of the TV and putting on the movie.

Eddy and I both screamed when Channing Tatum came up on the screen and we held each other every time he did his solo dance. It reminded me of when I first saw it with Winnie. Winnie squealed whenever Alex Pettyfer danced on the screen. A few times she ran up to the TV and started making out with it. Eddy and I ended up doing that as well.

Altogether, it was a wonderful night. Eddy ended up sleeping over and we went out to breakfast in our PJs. According to Sherlock, when he saw us dressed so poorly on the streets, what we were doing was meant for "hooligans". Well, we were just living our life. New country, new me. So that means walking around the streets in my pajamas along with my best friends.

* * *

They stood together in the doorway, side by side. She refused to look him in the eyes; afraid he may sense her terror and near anger. He glanced at her and knew, taking her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him.

"You're going to do this, just like we planned. Do not lose your nerve; do not leave evidence. Otherwise, you will be joining him in his grave. Understood, darling?" He was completely serious, but somehow compassionate at the same time; something he's always had a talent for.

She let out a sort of whimper and nodded furiously.

"Oui, Jim." Her small voice trembled. He kissed her forehead.

"That's my girl." He whispered. With a less-than-gentle shove, he sent her on her way.

A frightened expression on her face, she looked back, but did not dare to cease her falling footsteps. There was thunder outside and rain pounded against the cold glass of the windows. A grandfather clock suddenly wailed at the early hour of one.

She quietly crept into her own room, one hand behind her back, praying Jacque would be asleep. She watched the blankets rise and fall with his even, rhythmic breaths.

For several minutes this is all she did, thinking that she may not be able to go through with it. This possible ending to her story paralyzed her with fear. He began to stir and she knew that if she waited until he woke, all chances of killing him were out the rain-soaked window.

She held the gun to his temple, closed her eyes tightly and- daring not to look- pulled the trigger.

_What have I done?! _She thought to herself,_ I just killed ze man who showered me in so much affection for so many years! No. This had to be done. For Jim. For _us_._


	8. Chapter 5: Pairs

There was a frenzy of thundering knocks on the outermost door of 221B. The woman was dressed in mourning clothes and red-faced from crying. She stood in the storm for over twenty minutes before John Watson broke down and answered, despite his flatmate's heated protestations.

"Monsieur, thank you so much for opening ze door. It iz an emergency. I must speak with Monsieur Holmes."

"Well, I don't think that'll be an option." He told her sympathetically, "Mr. Holmes has a very full schedule..."

"Please, Monsieur secretary, just let me speak to him! My husband iz dead and I think someone may have killed him!" She pleaded.

"I- I'm sorry, did you just call me his secretary?"

"Oui. Are you not?"

"Of course he is." Sherlock butted in, putting a hand on John's shoulder.

"Oh! Monsieur Holmes! Please help me! My husband haz died! The police say it waz a suicide, but he would never leave me like that! Someone must have killed him!" The woman again begged.

"Come upstairs, ma'am, and we'll talk about your situation." John invited dully, shaking off Sherlock's grip.

"Thank you so much!" The woman said gratefully whilst entering the building.

Once the trio was inside the flat, John sat her down on the couch, "Now, what did you say your name was, miss?"

"Antoinette. My husband's name iz-" she paused and heavily exhaled, "waz Jacque. Everything waz going so great for him. Hiz job, our marriage; there waz no reason for him to do such a thing. He iz-" she sighed again, "waz happy and active. Everyone loved him... and he loved me. Please, Monsieur Holmes, you're ze only man clever enough to help me!"

_Stroke his ego_, Antoinette heard Jim's voice echo in her head, _and hesitate to use 'was'. Everything he says about Jacque that could be taken as a personal offense, is. Beg, do not demand. And above all, my dear, your husband was a happy man._

"Why do you think someone would want to kill him?" Sherlock interrogated.

"If I knew that, I wouldn't need you now, would I?" She sounded dreadfully irritated, "Are you going to help me or not?"

"Yes, I'll help you! But you can't be so reserved in your answers. You have to give me all the details to the questions I ask of you!" Holmes scolded.

"I am sorry." Antoinette hung her head, "It's just that no one else believes me and I thought you may do the same."

"Of course we believe you," John assured her, "but there's no way we can help you if we're going in blind."

"Of course, Monsieur. My apologies."

She stayed for over thirty minutes, telling them how on the night of his death, she had arrived home late to an unlocked front door. She had walked into the bedroom and there was a shadow standing over her sleeping husband. When she screamed, the apparition vanished out of their second floor window. After the shock had worn off, she rushed to Jacque's side to find his pillow soaked in blood and a gaping hole in his head.

"Leave." Sherlock demanded shortly after she finished her story.

"But you said-" She began to object.

"I said I would help you. Now that I know the details, I must think, but I cannot do so with your blubbering. Now go."

"Oui, Monsieur." Antoinette obeyed, attempting to conceal her annoyance at his rude behavior.

She left the apartment, and once she was safely in the cab she hailed, Jim rang her.

"Bonjour, mon amour."

"Good job, my love. He definitely bought into it. Just don't forget your role in this. You're a dime a dozen, dear." He replied curtly before hanging up.

She fought her tears the rest of the ride home, wondering what she had gotten herself into.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock bloody Holmes.

Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes.

He was the most fascinating man I have ever met. And the most annoying. Although I won't deny that I was smitten with his brilliance and adorably awkward ways, I wasn't going to let him treat me like an idiot.

So I had to prove myself. I had to help him solve one of his cases and then I knew that he would consider me worthy. But, since he and John refused to let Melissa and I go on cases with them- on the basis that it was "too dangerous"- I had to resort to other means besides asking politely.

I tried to sweet-talk Greg into letting me join him at a crime scene, but his work (and I secretly knew his reputation) wouldn't allow it. Then I tried sneaking onto one, which just resulted in a severe scolding from him and getting kicked out. After that, I tried to follow Sherlock on one of his investigations, but only lost track of him.

It was hopeless; not to mention pathetic. So eventually, I gave up.

That is, until I met Mycroft Holmes.

It was a typical day, really. Greg had rushed off directly from my apartment that morning in an attempt to make it to work on time.

Liss, Addie, and I were home, waiting till noon to get dressed for the evening. We decided we were going out for dinner and then to the movies. As we headed out of the door, we came face to face with two large men in plain suits.

"We're here to collect a certain Ms. Pollock and a Ms. Giordano." The one to our right said. His skin was a dark brown and he wore a small goatee.

"Well, Agent J," I teased, "there are no aliens on this side of town. Unless you could count Sherly as one. This involves him, I'm guessing?"

The men glanced between each other, completely disregarding my MIB joke. The one to the left had rusty brown hair smoothed into a comb over, his skin whiter than the walls of a nuthouse.

"What's going on?" The girls inquired; Addie in annoyance and Melissa in concern.

"Has he stirred up trouble recently? He must've if the government's panties are in a knot." I knew they were secret service agents. What the hell had Sherlock done?

"I'm afraid that that information is classified." The pale man said, "Now, if you two would come with us, most of your questions will be answered."

"_Most_? Seriously?" I asked before looking at my best friends beside me, "Sorry, Addie. This is obviously something important. Liss, we should probably just go."

"You're really going to leave me?" Addie asked in an irritated manner.

"Sorry! We'll meet you up later, okay?"

"Is Sherlock alright?" Liss implored, panic rising in her voice. It was a bit odd of her to not mention her own boyfriend. I shrugged it off as the two men led us into a black car parked in front of our flat.

"He's just fine, miss." The former man answered her with a smirk on his ovalish face.

Not twenty minutes later, the vehicle pulled into the dark gloom of a parking garage. The building was a warehouse of some kind, abandoned within the last decade by some failed corporation. The only thing left was an empty space with a leaky roof.

The men escorted us to the entrance where a beautiful young woman, with medium length light brown hair and a Blackberry phone in her hand, greeted us coldly.

"This way." She said aloofly. I was appalled by her lack of manners.

"Who're you?" I asked politely, giving her another chance to redeem her rude behavior.

"Um… Anthea." She replied distantly, her face glued to her phone.

"So, Anthea… can you tell us why we're here? And maybe who's sent for us?"

"Hm? Oh. No."

"Well, I'm officially annoyed and at a loss." I told Melissa.

"I'm kind of freaked out." She responded, tucking a loose hair behind her ear as Anthea took us up a large flight of stairs.

"Nah, you shouldn't be." I answered breathlessly as I jogged up the steps, as if I were racing her. She shot me an annoyed glance that told me I wasn't being serious enough. Why should I be? Nobody died. Yet. I decided to settle into a seemingly mellow demeanor to make her happy. The truth was, I was excited for what was in store.

Anthea led us down a dark hallway, the sun pouring through the broken windows at the end of each corridor, forming spider webs of light on the dusty tiled floor.

She stopped abruptly at a double push door and gestured lazily to it before walking off.

"Thanks." I told her and stared at the threshold of this boundary separating Liss and I from what lay just beyond. I glanced at Melissa, who nodded, and then I pushed them open with a deep breath.

* * *

The two girls entered the room and Mycroft could almost smirk at the looks of uncertainty on their faces. He stood as they made their way cautiously to him, tapping the handle of his black umbrella.

"Afternoon, ladies." He said, not even bothering to offer his hand in greeting.

"So who're _you_?" Gwen asked as she stepped a bit closer to him.

"That is unimportant. But, I know _you_ very well, Ms. Pollock. As well as your friend Melissa, here."

"Ooh. So mysterious. How much is "very well", my man?" She placed a hand on her hip as she spoke, the look in her eyes daring him to astonish her. Melissa kept quiet, glancing between them with wide eyes.

"Well, I know that the two of you and another girl, Addison Docosta, moved next door to Sherlock Holmes not four weeks ago. I also know that you have spent the last several days attempting in vain to gain his approval and to prove your intelligence."

"Why are we here?" Gwen interrogated sharply.

"I would like to make you an offer."

"Let's hear it, then." She stepped extremely close to him, the lack of distance enough to make him uncomfortable. She noticed this and smirked as he backed away.

"Well, if you want the ability to frequent crime scenes and perhaps, even, to accomplish things that an average citizen cannot, I believe I can assist you in that."

"Ah, but at what cost?"

"Favors. And maybe an occasional report on Sherlock."

"What _kind_ of favors, darling?" Gwen asked, narrowing her eyes in distrust.

"Oh, nothing you couldn't achieve, Ms. Pollock. Nor anything that might place you… in a compromising position."

"Winnie, I don't think we-" Melissa began.

"We'll do it." Gwen told the man decidedly.

"Winnie!" Mel exclaimed, "I don't think I'm up for these... "favors"."

"Then I'll handle those, Lissa. You can have the report."

"But-"

"Do you want to do this with me or not?" Gwen demanded irritably.

"Well… yeah, I do. But-"

"Then it's settled." She then turned to Mycroft, "We are in agreement."

His lips curled up ever so slightly as he shook her hand.

"Anthea shall supply you with government badges that will enable you to enter any facility, interrogate any person, and justify any action at your whim. I expect Ms. Giordano's report in three weeks. And for you, Ms. Pollock, the details of your favors will be available this coming Tuesday. Rides will be given to you both."

"Understood." She replied as she shook back, leaning closer to him, "Thank you… Mr. Holmes."

Melissa squawked.

"Very impressive, Gwendolyn, I must say. I believe that show of elite observation deserves a first name basis, don't you? You can call me Mycroft."

"You- you're… related… to- to-" Liss stuttered in shock.

"Well, Mycroft, 'twas a pleasure doing business with you." Gwen responded and turned on her heels, dragging a confused and startled Melissa along with her.

Once they took their new badges from Anthea and reentered the black car, Liss couldn't stop herself from asking how on earth Gwen was able to figure out that Mycroft was, indeed, Sherlock's brother.

"Well firstly, he's around the same height, has very similar hair color, and he also has those icy blues. When I stepped closer to him earlier, he moved away; just like Sherlock would. The cherry on top was when he called the younger Holmes by his first name. I mean, it wouldn't be proper unless you know the guy, right? Anyway, that was too easy."

"I wish I could do that." Melissa said, gaping at her friend in amazement.

"You very well could if you just take the time to observe, Liss. You're making it harder than it really is." Winnie replied, sinking further into her seat.

"I know, I just- I dunno. I'm not good at that kind of stuff." She thought for a moment, "Aren't you freaking out about what those "favors" are, Winn?"

"Hm? Oh, no. In fact, I think they'll be fun." Gwen answered with a grin.

"I worry about you sometimes."

"Nah; no need to. I'll be perfectly fine, Lissa. Like always." She winked as the vehicle pulled up to their apartment.

* * *

Shortly after Antoinette left them, Lestrade called Sherlock to inform them that there was another case in East Haringey. Holmes wasted no time, throwing on his suit jacket and heading out of the door, John at his heels.

As they entered a cab, John asked what Holmes thought of the strange Frenchwoman that had been in their flat no more than an hour before.

"There's not much to think about." He replied, looking out of the window. Analytically. As always.

"What do you mean?"

"She killed her husband." The detective replied simply.

"That's ridiculous!"

"No. It isn't. She wasn't nearly as hysterical as she should have been, and she was rather annoyed when I asked her to leave."

"That doesn't make any sense, Sherlock."

"Well, it didn't to me, either. That is, until I realized that someone else made her do it."

"What?!" John was dumbfounded.

"If you didn't notice, she was terribly frightened."

"She said she saw the man who killed her husband! Of course she was frightened!"

"Ah, but if you threw in the annoyance and lack of grief, that wouldn't have added up. You are far too trusting in terms of women, John."

Ignoring his colleague's snide comment, John rubbed his eyes as if it would help him to clear away his confusion.

"So how are we going to get her to take us to the man behind this?"

"Not sure. But I dusted her fingerprints on the knob so we can be certain of her identity. You never know."

John was about to reply when the cab suddenly stopped at their destination. They were not in a very nice part of the city; graffiti lining almost every surface; the streets peppered with mean looking inhabitants. John noticed that one of the apartment complexes was surrounded by police cars and an ambulance.

Sherlock shot out of the taxi and made his way into the building as John paid the driver and hurried after. The staircase to the flat was old, poorly crafted, and rather dangerous, some of the steps crumbling into the next. Reaching the landing, Watson and Sherlock met Lestrade at one of the several doors.

"Someone beat you to the punch." The inspector said, entering the tiny apartment. To Sherlock and John's surprise, Gwendolyn was hovering over the dead body of a young woman on the ratty couch in the back of the living room, talking animatedly to Anderson, who was obviously too engrossed in staring wolfishly at her legs to pay much attention.

"What is she doing here?!" Sherlock hissed, turning to Greg sharply. Gwen, seeing them, waved over-exaggeratedly, her expression etched with childish excitement.

"Ask her." The DI replied, slapping his face with his palm in seeming embarrassment of his girlfriend's behavior.

"But she's a civilian! She can't be here. Kick her out like the last time."

"I can't."

"And why is that?"

Before Greg could answer, Gwen strutted over to greet them, flipping out her wallet to reveal a government badge to the three men.

"I really like your brother, Holmes." She said with a wink.

"Mycroft." Sherlock fumed under his breath. John crossed his arms in amusement. This girl really liked to challenge people.

Sherlock's gaze travelled to the small kitchenette where Melissa stood, conversing shyly with a handsome officer by the name of Colton.

"She's here, too?" He said with a point. Melissa noticed his suspended index finger.

"I'm just with her!" She bellowed in defense, her hand gesturing to Gwen, who rolled her eyes.

"So, the girl's name is Jane Groh and she was a heroin addict, considering the amount of track marks on her arm. She lived here on her own and she was found by her neighbor earlier today. She's been dead about eighteen hours. Donovan had thought it was an overdose, but Anderson's team concluded that her bloodstream was heavily loaded with mercury. So she was poisoned. On top of all that, the evident wound from the needle is on her right arm. She was right-handed. The needle in itself was much larger than the others, and it's missing. So someone else was here. There's no sign of a struggle, so it's likely that she was either asleep or knew her killer well." Gwen told Sherlock, placing a hand on her hip.

"Decent job of stating the obvious, Ms. Pollock. Now leave it to the professionals." He replied, swishing his gloved hand toward the exit.

"No, nononononono," she said, stepping in his way, "I'm going to take this case off your hands. I know I can handle it. I mean, look! I have a badge!" She waved it about, drooping her big blue eyes pleadingly. He was about to argue when John spoke up.

"Oh, just let her, Sherlock. You've got quite a few other- probably more important- cases to attend to."

Holmes stared at his flatmate and then turned back to the lovely blonde standing in front of him, her face almost bursting with enthusiasm.

"Fine. But I am not going to assist you in any way. Understand?"

"Rawr. Alright. John can help me out, then. Right, Doc?"

John stared between them silently before realizing that they were referring to him.

"Wait... what?"

"You can lend a hand with this case, can't you?"

John spotted Melissa approaching. "Why can't Melissa join you?" He asked, trying to escape the situation he had inadvertently gotten himself into.

"What are you guys-" Mel began.

"I need you, John, because Lissa and I have no idea what we're doing. New at this, remember?" Gwen said in desperation. Everyone else in the small group looked at him expectantly through raised brows, with the exception of Melissa, who was utterly unaware of what was happening. He sighed.

"I guess I'll show you the ropes of this case-solving business if it's that important to you."

"Thank you, John! No wonder Liss adores you so much!" She exclaimed happily, throwing her arms around the doctor. He patted her back awkwardly.

"What can I do?" Melissa asked her friend, looking less than thrilled to be separated from her.

"Oh, that's easy. Keep Sherly here company." She replied, abruptly pulling away from John.

"Firstly, the idea of being forced to babysit her is repulsive, though not nearly as much as the thought of being bored, so I suppose I could tolerate her. Secondly, don't call me Sherly." Holmes said, his finger in Gwendolyn's face.

A chaotic banter ensued between the two detectives, the girls, and the doctor. Gwen, in order to shut the rest of them up, shouted "BANANAS!".

"The hell-" Greg started.

"Okay, I have some suspects' names. The first was Mrs. Pone, the neighbor, but she couldn't've killed Jane. She made us all cookies. So the next one is a guy named Mike Garcia. He was, like, besties with the dead chick here. Well, lesgo, my new partner! Chop, chop!" With that, Gwen grabbed Watson's arm and hurried out of the apartment building, leaving a gawking Lestrade, an annoyed Sherlock, and an uncomfortable Mel.

"Follow me." Holmes told the remaining young woman, he himself exiting the flat. Lestrade stared after the lot of them in complete disbelief of what had just happened.

"How do I get myself caught up in these situations?" He muttered under his breath before returning to his work.

* * *

We were all being split up into groups. Lestrade went with Anderson to go back to the lab to analyze some evidence, Winnie went with John to find the suspects and I was stuck with Sherlock, so we- I mean he- took on the case of that French chick, Antoinette, and chose to investigate her house.

I would've rather gone with Winnie, and John could've gone with Sherlock. I wasn't too ecstatic about the idea and not exactly one hundred percent okay with the plan, but since I had to write the analysis for Mycroft on Sherlock, I might as well "follow" him to get some details.

We were escorted to Antoinette's house by a cab.

"Are you sure she isn't home?" I asked as we exited the vehicle.

"I'm positive." He replied, sure of his answer.

"But what if she comes home while we're in there?"

"She won't." He said through his teeth, sounding agitated.

"Well, then why-" And before I could ask another question, Sherlock backed me up against a street light. I looked up at him with wide eyes. His tall, lean figure intimidated me.

"I understand, Melissa, that you like to talk, but please leave your questions to a minimum. I can't think with your voice interrupting my brain. Do you understand? I will not let a girl like you interfere with my work. So keep your mouth sealed." He demanded, looking down at me.

My voice squeaked an "Okay" before Sherlock nodded and advanced towards the front door. I followed behind him with a respectable distance. He climbed the steps that lead to the door by twos and I, one at a time. My legs weren't long enough.

I rested on the side railing as he attempted to open the door, but it was locked. He immediately began to pick the lock, but something was blocking it from the inside.

"Damn," he swore under his breath, "If she isn't home, then how is it unable to open? Must be one of those complicated door locks." he mumbled to himself.

"Uh oh, looks like we can't get in. Why don't we go back home and just-" I stopped as he leapt from the steps and made his way over to the window. He stepped on a rock that elevated his body to come eye level with it, '"Ah! No matter."

He smiled and I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as Sherlock picked up a rock and tossed it in his hand a few times before chucking it at the window, shattering the glass. I looked about cautiously in hopes no one saw or heard what had been going on.

I looked back over to Sherlock to scold him, but he was already looking at me. He motioned his hands to the window several times before I finally understood what he wanted me to do. "No, no, no, no," I refused, "I am not climbing through that!"

He motioned once more. "You simply have to climb through the window, un-block the door, and let me in." He explained.

"Why can't you do it?" I asked, walking down the steps to confront him.

"Because I can't fit through there. You can. Well, if my calculations are correct. If not, you're at a risk of damaging a major artery where the leftover shards of glass remain on the window's frame."

"That doesn't make any sense!" I fought back.

"You're not as inarticulate as I presumed you to be." He said, looking off and then back at me.

"Exactly. Now _you_ can climb through the window." I added, motioning my hand towards it.

"No, you." He defended, mimicking my actions.

"You!" I replied.

We kept going back and forth with the hand motions, urging the other to climb through the window. Sherlock slapped a hand on his forehead. "Would you just climb through the bloody window already!" He ordered.

I crossed my arms and leaned on my hip. "Not unless you say please." I said, lifting my chin high in the air. I wasn't going to let him push me around like this.

"What the-" He stopped and sighed, looking off and ran a hand through his curly locks. "Fine! Please?" He gave in, answering with a pestered tone through his teeth.

"Now, was that so hard?" I asked, teasing him and making my way to the window. Sherlock followed close behind.

"Okay," I began, looking up at the window that was at least two or three feet above my eye level, "how are we going to- WOAH!" I was cut off as Sherlock lifted me by my waist high enough so I could grab onto the window and pull myself in. My hoodie got caught onto a nail that was sticking out of the wood and was holding me back from entering the house.

"Sherlock, my-my hoodie, it's caught on a nail." I beckoned, sounding distressed. I knew this wouldn't end well.

"Well, try ripping it off." He suggested, making me sound like I hadn't thought of that idea first.

"No shit, Sherlock!" I replied through my teeth, still attempting to release my shirt from the grasp of the nail, glaring back at him with daggers.

I could hear him groan and then as I attempted to pull more of my body away from the nail, Sherlock tried helping me. He released me from the tug of the nail, but it was what was keeping me from falling through the window and into the house.

I tumbled clumsily onto the hard wooden floor, dragging the curtains along with me and sending a potted plant to shatter across the room. I sat up with the curtains still tightly wrapped around me and examined the damage. This didn't surprise me.

I heard Sherlock knock anxiously and I stumbled to the door, throwing the curtains off of me, and unlocked it for him. He barged in and stopped in his tracks when he crushed a shard of glass from the pot underfoot. He glanced down at the floor, then the mess, and then at me.

I hid behind my hair. "Sorry." I managed to apologize.

Sherlock shook his head before heading towards the stairs and I followed him. "Shouldn't you check the kitchen or something?" I asked as he leapt up the stairs. I could hardly keep up with him.

"She said he died in his sleep. Therefore," he started as he entered a room and I came in behind him, "he died in a bedroom."

I gasped as I saw the blood that was dramatically splattered across the wall and the headboard of the bed and the sheets. Sherlock continued to walk into the bedroom confidently and as he glanced around the room, I spoke.

"I remember when I was in kindergarten and I had these neighbors that had cooler toys than me so I walked into their house through the front door and just sat in their house for an hour and played with all the toys. So this is the first time breaking into someone's house since I was six. I feel like a badass."

I could tell Sherlock had completely ignored me because he didn't reply. I could see his eyes move in every direction and the gears in his head were turning. He was thinking. This reminded me of my music teacher when I was in high school. Whenever she was grading or writing or just thinking, she would hush me harshly when I spoke, so I stayed quiet as Sherlock figured everything out.

"Jump on the bed for me, will you?" Sherlock asked.

I shrugged and leapt onto the bed, jumping as he instructed me to do, "That will do." He said, then I hopped off. I didn't bother to ask him why he had made me perform such a foolish favor because I knew it had something to do with what ideas were roaming around in that brain of his.

Sherlock's eyes lit up like a dog's ears would perk as if he had heard something. And he had.

"Someone's here."

I froze in place. "Who?" I asked, frightened.

"Not sure." He said, closing his eyes, trying to tune me out.

I tried not to scream when I could hear a pair of heels hastily coming up the stairs. Sherlock gripped my arm, opened a door that led to a closet, forcefully threw me into it, and came in behind me. The closet was wide but very narrow and contained several fur coats and expensive French attire.

Sherlock backed me up against the far right hand corner of the closet, our bodies almost pressed together. It sort of felt awkward with the lack of distance between us.

I couldn't help but say in a whisper, "I thought you said she wouldn't come ho-" and before I could finish, he placed his hand over my mouth. I licked it.

He retrieved his hand in disgust. "Could you be any more of a child?" He scolded quietly. I smiled sheepishly at him and he rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Wait, shh." He added.

"Wh-" He covered my mouth again. I didn't fight back this time when I could hear a voice enter the room.

I noticed she was stressed by the way I could hear her pace the floor. "Oui, Monsieur, but it appearz that someone haz broken into ze house. They might have figured somzing out." I could hear a petite, French accent speaking. She was on the phone, and I knew it was Antoinette. Who was she on the phone with, though?

"Oui, I will be right over." Sherlock and I tensed and got closer to each other. I pressed myself against the wall as the closet door opened and I squinted my eyes closed in hopes she wouldn't see us. Finally, she closed the door without an idea that we had fooled her. We waited to hear that she had left the house before I mumbled into his trench coat, "Okay, Sherlock, you can step away from me."

"Right." he coughed out, sounding embarrassed. "Well," he added, getting out of the closet, "I can't believe I didn't think of that before."

I followed him out of the room and down the stairs. "Think of what?" I asked.

"The woman killed her husband for a lover. But why would they want to involve me in the affair?" He mumbled the last question to himself.

"Sherlock! That's insane!"

"No! It's brilliant!" He replied, throwing his gloved hand into the air with a pointed finger, "So she has been a pawn the whole time! Who is the mastermind behind all this?" He was beginning to sound overly excited by this case. To me, it just seemed like a bad soap opera.

"Let's follow her." He suggested.

I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion, "How?"

"I put the tracking device you had in your hood into Antoinette's coat. The one that she grabbed before leaving. I liked that touch, Melissa."

"I didn't put- thank you, Sherlock." I smiled, denying the fact that I hadn't put a tracking device into my hood and just taking the credit for whoever did.

"You didn't come up with that, did you, Melissa?" Sherlock caught me, shaking his head in disappointment.

I bowed my head in shame, "No, but do you think you know who did?"

Sherlock looked off for a moment or two and then looked back at me, "Mycroft."

* * *

I tugged John along with me, my focus on the task at hand. I wasn't just going to solve the case, I was going to benefit the Yard and gain Sherlock's approval. I would not fuck this up.

Once John and I leapt into a cab, I pulled out my phone and rattled off the address I had looked up before Sherlock appeared. From my observations and questionings of the nice old lady that lived next door to the deceased druggy, I came up with a very brief list of suspects. Not much to start with, but enough.

"So... is that where that Garcia bloke lives?" John asked. I nodded and glanced out the window, my imagination mixing with the few facts I acquired at the victim's apartment.

When we arrived, I told the driver to wait there and then John and I made our way to the flat of Michael Garcia. I knocked a few times and when no one answered, I began to tap on the doors of his neighbors. Finally, a few houses down from our lead suspect's, a man in his late fifties answered.

"Ello." I said with the best West London accent I could muster. John looked at me in surprise, but I continued, "We're with the Scotland Yard," I flipped my badge out ever so slightly so he couldn't read the details before returning it to my pocket, "and we were wonderin' where a certain Michael Garcia is. 'Ave you seen 'im?"

"Isn't that him over there?" The man replied, pointing behind us. I turned to see the target hop into our taxi, which pulled away before John and I could catch up. The bastard had been in his house the whole time. I damned myself for not being patient enough. Then there was the fact our taxi drove off. When I got home, I planned on making a very strong-worded phone call to the company.

"Now what?" John asked me.

"Wait, I know." I ran into the road to stop another cab. As it came to a halt beside me, I ripped open the front door, shoved my badge in the driver's face, and reapplied my British accent.

"I'm a government agent and I need to use this vehicle."

"The hell?!" The man exclaimed, dumbfounded.

"Get. Out. Of. The. Car." I replied through clenched teeth.

When the man didn't comply, I grabbed him by the arm and yanked him out with all my strength, pushing him out of my way as I jumped into his seat and closed the door. John entered the passenger's side with an expression of awe.

"What?!" I demanded.

"Oh, nothing at all. I'm just a bit... uh, shocked by this."

"Get used to it. I'm a shocking kind of gal." I tapped the steering wheel, "Well... opposite side of the car _and_ road. This should be interesting."

"Wait, you haven't driven here yet?!"

"Nope. Didn't need to. It'll be fine, though."

"Maybe I should-" Without warning, I sped down the road, leaving John to grip the door and seat tightly with wide eyes.

Almost killing a few civilians, a cat, and a couple of squirrels, I finally spotted our suspect's cab, so I slowed down. I remained a few vehicles behind it and watched as it dropped Garcia off at the corner. After he began to walk away, I pulled alongside the pavement and saw him disappear around a building.

"Remind me to never get into a car that you're driving." John grumbled next to me, his adrenaline beginning to wear off from the several near accidents on the way.

"I'm not that bad." I defended, cruising up to where Mike Garcia turned. It was an alley leading to a bar. Its neon sign was flashing and I suddenly noticed that the sky had dimmed tremendously. It was already nighttime?

"Should we follow him in?" John questioned, his hand on the door handle.

I almost said yes until I discerned the other people entering the bar. They were all men. Some of them were dressed very... eccentrically.

"I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Why's that?"

"Um, Doc? That's a gay bar."

"Oh."

"Yeah, let's just sit here and wait till he gets out."

"Right. Probably best..."

We sat in an awkward silence for a couple of minutes. I had to break the ice somehow, "So... you and Mel, huh? Cool beans."

He chuckled at this. _Good_, I thought, _At least he doesn't think I'm a complete nutter._

"Yes. We're together."

The conversation was so dreadfully painful.

"You guys get it in yet?"

"Pardon?!" He looked uncomfortable.

"You know, have you guys-"

"I know what you were implying. No, we haven't."

"You seem frustrated by that."

"What?! No! I'm not. It's fine. I'm fine with it."

"Alright. I mean, that's what happens with virgins. She'd have to really love you to screw you. Just saying."

"I would rather we not talk about this."

Ah-oh. I blew it this time.

"I'm so sorry. I'm really socially awkward, so most of what I say makes me sound like an asshole. I tend to voice thoughts that're better left unsaid."

"It's quite alright. I just think we should change the subject, is all." He replied with a smile. So I didn't screw up that bad. Phew.

"Okay, um... how'd you end up here?"

"Well, you dragged me along with you..."

I laughed, "I meant, how'd you end up on Baker Street with Sherlock?"

"Oh. Well, as you know, I was in the army up until a few years ago. Injured leg, and all that. Even after it healed, though, I found I still couldn't walk on it-"

"Psychosomatic limp?"

"Yes. I even had a therapist to attempt to relieve myself of that. Didn't really work, I might add. Anyway, I couldn't afford my flat and needed someone to share the rent with. I happened upon an old colleague, Stamford, and he introduced me to Holmes, who also needed a flatmate. So there." He finished with a nod.

"Wow. That's cool. How'd you get rid of the limp?"

"Just went away on its own, I s'pose. Fairly certain it was running about the city with Sherlock that did the trick." He grinned, and I could tell that he was remembering, "What about you, Ms. Pollock? Why'd you decide to grace the streets of London?"

"Liss didn't tell you?"

"No. She only told me her side of things. I was curious about yours and Addison's."

"Oh. Well Addie, frankly, was just bored. It was different for me."

"How so?" He leaned in slightly, obviously interested. I laughed at his intrigue before answering.

"Well, I was actually engaged. His name was Chris. I dated him throughout college."

"You? Engaged? No offense, but you didn't strike me as the marital type."

"None taken. You're right, anyway. I'm not really wife material. I guess I'm just too... flighty. But yes, I was engaged."

"What happened between you?"

I looked out onto the street, grazing my eyes over the darkening sky before responding, "He changed. Things got out of hand. I should've recognized the warning signs, but... I was in too deep to either notice or even care."

"Warning signs? What did he do?"

I stared at him for a moment, considering how much I should tell him. His expression was one of clinical concern. True to his nature, I supposed. I knew in a heartbeat that I could trust this man. But I also knew that I couldn't relive the worst bit to anyone. Not even Liss or Addie knew the darkest part of my failed engagement.

"The first thing I noticed was his constant nosing around in my business. I mean, I thought it was a normal behavior for a young couple preparing to spend the rest of their lives together. But then his possessiveness and jealousy just grew and grew until he laid his hands on me. And you know, everyone asked why I didn't just leave. But what they don't get is that I was stuck. I loved him, firstly. That in itself made it almost impossible to abandon him. And then he played my sympathies and my guilt and my insecurities to have me believe I needed him. It was sick." I found myself trembling with anger at the very thought of him.

"How did you get out of it?"

I sighed bitterly, "The night I left, he did unbelievably horrible things to me, so I bashed him in the head with my bedside lamp and walked away."

"Horrible? As in?" I could tell that John's kind nature had him furious at my ex's monstrosity.

"He... tried to kill me." It wasn't a lie, per se, but it wasn't the whole truth, either. John just shook his head, a mixture of disgust, shock, and pity evident in his features.

"Don't feel sorry for me," I added quickly, "I'm fine now. But after that night, it was like he was still there, you know? Almost as though he was still breathing down my neck. I saw him everywhere. I couldn't escape. And since Addie lived in Florida and Mel was still attending school, I felt so completely alone. But, even after Liss graduated and the three of us went to Cali, I still felt him. Part of that might've been because I knew I'd have to go back when the vacation ended. But then Connor called about the flat and it was too good to be true. I couldn't say no."

"Well, I'm glad that you're happier here." He replied, patting my leg affectionately.

As I smiled gratefully in return, I caught sight of our target, Garcia, strolling out of the bar. He stopped and looked at us quizzically, as though he had seen us earlier. I had to do something before he got suspicious.

"I am so sorry for this." I told John.

"What are y-"

I grabbed John's face and kissed him urgently, pushing him against the door of his side. He fought back at first, which I expected, but then he started kissing back, his once flailing arms suddenly pressed to my hips.

Looking in the suspect's direction, I saw him turn and walk away. Relieved, I attempted to tug out of John's grasp, but he kept going. I had to push him to get him to stop.

"He wasn't looking at us anymore, you know." I said breathlessly, jabbing a thumb at the man ahead of us.

"What?" John asked, confused.

"You realize I only did that because Garcia saw us, right?" I was becoming increasingly disturbed by John's reaction to the kiss.

"Oh. Uh... right! Yes, of course. I-" he coughed awkwardly, "just couldn't see him... uh... behind your... er... hair."

I would've called his bluff, but I was starting to lose sight of our man. "Let's go get him."

I got out of the cab and made my way toward Garcia. When he saw us following him, though, he panicked and went into a complete sprint to escape.

"Hey, you! Stop!" I called.

It didn't work. I only kissed John so Garcia wouldn't run off. AND HE DID _ANYWAY_. Frustrated by his lack of cooperation, I chased after him full speed. As I neared him, I did the only thing I could think of. I tackled him to the ground.

I knew I had done something wrong, because when we landed, I heard a sickening snap. One of us had broken something. I knew it wasn't me because I felt no pain or unusual numbness, besides my labored lungs and accompanying burned throat from my unexpected run.

"My arm!" He moaned in pain, "Who the hell are you?!"

"I am a secret service agent here to question you about your whereabouts this time last night." I replied, pinning him to the ground.

"What?! I was- I was at my mum's place!"

"Likely story!" I growled, twisting his seemingly broken limb.

"I swear to god! It's true! Please! I don't even know what happened!" He cried in agony.

"Gwen!" John shouted, catching his breath beside me, "What the hell are you doing?!"

"He ran, so I followed. He wouldn't stop, so I made him." I said, wondering why John looked somewhat angry.

"You can't just attack people willy-nilly like that!" He scolded, "Get off of him!" I obeyed reluctantly and stood as John helped the man to his feet and examined his arm.

"You have no idea what went on last night?" I questioned with a calmer tone, ignoring John's exclamations of his thorough inspection of Garcia's injured limb.

"Honestly, I've no idea. What happened?"

"Jane Groh was poisoned and you were the last person to see her yesterday."

"Wait... what?" The man looked dazed and on the verge of hysteria, "Janie... is... _dead_?"

My expression softened as the man fought tears. He was definitely not the killer. Not even the greatest actor could pull off the look of anguish and loss in his eyes.

"It wasn't you, then." I said mostly to myself, feeling extremely guilty about my assault. I went over and dusted him off, fixed his shirt collar, and rearranged his mangled hair.

He was too overwhelmed with emotion to even register that I was touching him. John and I helped him to an overturned box that lay beside a dumpster and sat him down.

"I would never hurt her." He wailed.

"Do you know of anyone who would? Or perhaps someone that could at least lead us to the one responsible?" I asked gently.

He sniffed and took a deep breath, cradling his broken arm with his other, "She used to be a streetwalk, but it's been about three years now since. A guy named Ron Glowe found her and took her off the streets to work for him. They ended up dating for a while. Then last year she said she was sick of doing his dirty work, so she moved into this neighborhood. He might've done it."

"Thank you for your time," I said, "and I'm sorry about earlier. It's my first day on the job. I apologize."

"Yes, she has no experience in the investigation field whatsoever. And I would go straight to hospital with that break. From what I can tell, this one here really did some damage." He made a pointed glare in my direction to which I rolled my eyes.

"Yeah, Mike, sorry bout your arm." I patted his injured limb without realizing and he winced in pain. John ushered me back toward our borrowed cab before I did any more harm to the poor man.

"I cannot believe you just did that," John huffed, getting into the driver's side, "it's like dealing with the female version of Sherlock."

I entered the taxi and glowered at him, secretly flattered by his words. "He ran off! What was I supposed to do?!" I shot back stubbornly.

"Not attack him like an escaped gorilla, that's for certain!"

"Whatever." I replied, feeling like an unruly teen getting called out for bad behavior. I pulled out my phone and deleted Garcia's name from the suspect list, putting Ron Glowe in his place, "Do you know who this Glowe guy is?"

John squinted in thought as he drove us home, "Doesn't ring a bell, no. Sherlock might-"

"Ai! No. Sherlock will not be involved in this. I'm sure one of Jane's hooker friends might know."

"If you say so." The doctor replied with a weary sigh.

I hoped that we were on the right track.

* * *

A lot of people complain about their childhood. "My mum abandoned me," they'd say, or "My stepdad was mean," and they put the blame of their messed up lives on the shoulders of their trivial instances. Well, my father died when I was but an idea forming in my mother's stomach, and my mother passed while giving me life. I turned out okay.

I don't have a terribly large amount of childhood memories due to the anguish and loneliness that occupied them, but something I know I will never forget was the day Jimmy helped me realize that I wanted to be an artist.

I was about five years old and we had lived with the Fulsarettis, a family that assisted Jimmy with his rise to power in the crime world, since I was three. I overheard Papa (Jim's mentor and the head of the family) talking to Jimmy about Seb. You see, I didn't know Seb at this point in time, because he had gone off to the army when I was two.

Regardless, his name disappeared in a sea of blurry faces the harder I tried to recall his appearance. As I pondered this, I suddenly heard the words "letter", "Afghanistan", and "dead". I learned later that Seb's troop had been overtaken on one of their missions and, like the several men that had gone missing that day, he was presumed dead. Fortunately for us, we found out years later that Seb had escaped, traveling about the Middle East to exact revenge on the men responsible for the capture and murder of his fellow soldiers.

Jimmy was crying silently, tears rolling out of the reddened black eyes and over the pale, hard-looking face that I had known and loved my whole life. It was the first time I had ever seen him cry. If only I knew that it wouldn't be the last. Papa tried to make him feel better in his odd little fashion and while doing so, caught sight of me half hiding in the doorway. His eyes were sad for Jimmy's loss, and he looked at me like someone important would be missing from my life as I grew. His smile betrayed those eyes when he turned his attention back to Jimmy. The old man handed my brother money and nodded as he gestured to me, exposing my presence to him.

Jimmy turned to me, his smile the same desperate attempt to hide his pain as Papa's, but with a deeper and more agonizing to witness torment buried underneath. He came to me and took my tiny hand in his.

"Come on, Dylan. I'm going to take you somewhere special."

I nodded as I followed him into the car. When we got out, I was in front of a towering building that had the same architecture as a temple in ancient Greece.

"This place is old!" I whined.

"So? Sometimes old things have the best surprises."

"Papa is old..." I said thoughtfully.

He chuckled warmly, "Maybe just a little." Jimmy gave my hand a loving squeeze as we ascended the steps.

Behind the massive marble doors, I found the rest of my life hanging on cheap nails, perfectly arranged next to a dozen others on a long white wall that melted into a seemingly endless corridor.

It was not the work of some infamous artist, or even just a popular one. It was a Russian painter's depiction of a little girl holding a young man's hand. They appeared to be related and they were standing at someone's grave. It looked sort of like Jimmy and I when we'd visit my late parents' adjoining sites. He looked at me and caught a glimpse of the absolute wonder in my eyes.

"That's "The Life After", by Erik Put."

"Wow." I was awestruck.

How could something meant to have you realize the life you're living, make me so warm inside? I think it was because up until that moment, I'd felt so painfully alone. Jimmy and everyone else just seemed to go through the motions. But this- this made me feel like someone out there knew what it was like.

That was just the tip of the iceberg. The more art I saw, the less my shoulders seemed to weigh. By the time we left, I had to look at my feet to be sure I was still on the ground.

Jimmy smiled down at me, it seemed, for the hundredth time in those few hours. "I've got something else to show you that I think you'll enjoy." He told me as we again climbed into our car.

I didn't recognize where we were at all, but I could tell that it was a small group of shops. Jimmy exited the vehicle alone. Peeking through the open window with a grin, he said, "Stay here. I'll be right back."

I waited impatiently for the next fifteen minutes as Jimmy shopped. He finally returned with a wooden case, telling our chauffeur to head for home.

"What is it? What is it?!" I prodded, as small children often do.

"Calm down, little sister." Jimmy laughed. He opened the box slowly. Inside the black wooden case were all the supplies a beginning artist would need for a long time.

The following three days, Jimmy brought my meals to my room because I was too busy creating to leave. I barely made the time to use the bathroom.

Jimmy seemed almost at ease for those three days. The world was a happy place for the first time in too long.


	9. Chapter 6: Gwen's First Case

On the outskirts of London, young Antoinette rushed anxiously to her awaiting Jim. She reached for the knob of the rotting pine door, but was startled when her lover beat her to the punch.

"Jim!" She cried, unsure of how his mood would be considering the state of her flat when she left. She was truly frightened, and it showed. He took this into account as he wrapped an arm around her.

"Don't fear, darling," he drawled pleasantly, "I quite expected something like this to happen. You are perfectly safe." With that he kissed her with faux passion, deciding that a bit of fun with his latest toy was celebratory enough for the occasion. Sherlock fell right into his palm. And it was _so easy_.

"Where are your henchmen?" She asked, partly wary, partly enthralled that they were alone. It had been a while since they were last intimate, because Jim had been busy plotting. She knew shortly after she killed her husband that Jim, in fact, had no intention of marrying her and she felt a fool for believing every word he said. But it was far too late for escape. She was safest with her monstrosity of a lover. At least, for now.

He pulled her none too gently into the small house and closed the door before answering, "They'll be arriving soon. But... not _too_ soon." He smirked at how she shivered at his words and kissed her again roughly, pinning her against the door. She automatically brought her hands to his chest, pulling off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt in a hurry. He growled and made for her coat, tearing it off of her and throwing it haphazardly onto the floor.

As soon as it made contact with the tiles, a small round object with a red blinking light rolled out of its pocket and came to a halt at their feet. Jim picked it up and narrowed his eyes. Having had enough experience in his line of work, he knew very well that it was a tracking device.

"What iz that?" The French blonde questioned with panic rising rapidly in her small voice.

"Grab what you can. We're leaving." He replied, re-buttoning his shirt quickly and sweeping up his jacket from the floor.

"Bu-"

"_Now_." He demanded dangerously, his black eyes flashing with rage.

She knew better than to argue further and the two of them began to frantically collect everything of importance that Jim had so carefully organized that morning. Jim's phone rang seven times before he could answer.

"What?" He snarled, his form tensing.

"Um, boss, we've got a problem. Holmes is heading to your location. At best, you've got eight minutes."

"You stupid bitch!" He yelled at Antoinette, slamming the phone on the table. She gasped in terror as he made a grab for her in his murderous rage, and tried to run. But he was too fast. The look in his eyes said he was about to thrash her, but instead he leaned in close, "Get into the car."

She obeyed in tears, running out of the door with whatever she could carry. He exhaled and made his way to the front door, but stopped. He turned and sat the tiny tracking device in the center of the now bare den and smirked before walking calmly out.

* * *

I was afraid to speak to Sherlock. I could already tell he was annoyed by my presence, so I decided to become "quiet Melissa". Although it was rather difficult, I managed to stay silent as we retrieved the other side of the tracking device with struggle.

Mycroft seemed agitated by our request, but with a thirty second staring contest between the two siblings, Mycroft gave in and handed Sherlock what he wanted and Sherlock whisked out of Mycroft's office with a wave of his trench coat.

I followed behind him, but Mycroft called me back. I turned to face him. As he leaned on the front of his desk, giving me an egotistical smile, he said, "Don't forget what you and your friend Gwendolyn committed to, hm?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Melissa!" Sherlock beckoned impatiently, "I _will_ leave without you!" Without a word, I nodded and ran from the office.

When Sherlock had seen me, he exited the building in a hurry and I attempted to keep up with him as he played with the tracking device. I finally caught up to him and he stopped at the curb.

"Call a taxi." He ordered. I waved my hand and a cab pulled up next to us immediately.

We entered the taxi and before the cab driver could ask us for our destination, Sherlock said, "Camden Town. If you could make it quick, thank you."

I just rested my head against the window and continued to not say a word. I could feel Sherlock's eyes on me, but I pretended I didn't notice.

"Why are you quiet all of a sudden? Is it something that Mycroft had said to you?" He asked, "He's deranged, that man. Don't listen to a word he says."

I brought my head up from the glass and looked over at him, "That's not why. And why would I take any advice from you?"

"Because I've known Mycroft my entire life, whereas you've only been in the same room with him for less than twenty minutes." Sherlock said pointedly.

"Whatever." Was all I managed to say and rested my head back on the window.

A few seconds of silence and Sherlock spoke again, "Well, then _why_ are you silent? It's bothering me. I can't seem to figure it out!" Sherlock turned to me, resting his arm on the back of the seat.

I sat up and looked at the ceiling in annoyance, "Because I know you hate it when I talk!" Sherlock fell silent and just stared at me. He turned back to look at the window and softly chuckled to himself. I looked at him with confusion.

"What? What's so funny?" I asked, on the verge of punching him out.

"I don't hate it when you talk. It's just," he started, then turned back to look at me, "some of the things you say annoy me." A small smile appeared at the corner of his lips.

A chill went through me. That was the first time I had ever seen a real smile from that man. He always seemed so cold and mean, but he had a warm side to him. I kind of adored his smile, but he annoyed me enough to a point that I couldn't smile back.

"Whatever." I said once more before returning my head to the window.

As we began to slowly enter a suburban town outside of London which Sherlock had earlier named Camden Town, he ordered the driver to stop. We slowly screeched to a halt adjacent to the curb near a small house. Sherlock climbed out of the cab immediately and I followed.

"Let's go, let's go, let's go." Sherlock ushered me as he climbed the steps and barged in through the door that was surprisingly unlocked.

Before I reached the door, I heard him growl in angst. I rushed inside to make sure he was okay, but tripped over the step of the landing into the house and stumbled into Sherlock, sending us both to the floor. I gasped when I realized I was on top of him, our faces merely inches apart.

"Oh. My. God. I am... _so_ sorry. I- I hope I didn't crush every necessary organ in your body." I apologized frantically. Some part of me didn't want to get up. I felt... glued to his body somehow.

He stared up at me with wide eyes and such shock, I knew at that moment this was the most he's ever touched a girl. He looked off awkwardly not knowing what to do with the situation, but his eyes suddenly flashed and he roughly pushed me off of him, sending me to roll across the dusty wooden floor.

"Okay, that was uncalled for." I whined, sitting up straight.

Instead of answering, he retrieved a small round device from the floor and gazed at it. He paused for a moment, then chucked it at the wall nearest to him with all his strength, having it shatter like dust to the ground.

I reached out to him still on the floor, "Sherlo-" but was interrupted by a violent kick to a chair that overturned and slid across the floor to the back of the room. As he did this, I gave up my attempt to calm him and hid under my hood, hugging my legs to my body. I courageously brought my head up for a moment to say, "Calm yo dick, bro!" and hid back under my hood. I peered back up at him and could see him gazing at me with his icy blue eyes.

"I'm _sorry_?" Sherlock questioned with furrowed eyebrows. I could tell he was startled. I realized I had said something completely retarded to one of the smartest men in the world. Good job, Mel. Good job.

The matter didn't surprise me, but I could have said "Calm down" or "Mellow your testicles, por favor". No, that's even dumber. Seriously, though. "Calm your dick, bro"?! I made up the most sensible excuse, "Sorry, it's an American thing," and I looked off to avoid eye contact with him.

Sherlock shook his head, "Moving on, then. I'm going to do a search of the premises and you will too. Tell me if you find anything. I'll be towards the back." With that, Sherlock exited the room to leave me alone in that grotesque environment. I screamed when I felt a spider crawl up my hand.

Sherlock came rushing back. "What! Did you find something?" He asked excitedly as I jumped up from the ground and wiped the dust off of my butt.

"No, no, just a stupid spider." I hate spiders and no one understands that. It's an eight legged ninja. I have a reason to be terrified.

Sherlock left me alone again in agitation, but I just looked about the room. It was pretty empty besides a couch and few miscellaneous items like a lamp or a small side table that was turned over, as well as the mangled chair across the room that Sherlock had kicked only a few moments ago.

I really didn't want to be there. I would rather have been at home on my laptop, wasting my life on Tumblr, or writing a song and playing guitar. Anything but this. I didn't know how Sherlock enjoyed this. I guess you have to be smart to enjoy adventures such as these.

I walked around the room, tracing my finger alongside the wall, occasionally looking out a window or under the chairs and tables, but I came across nothing interesting.

I could hear Sherlock enter the room and I shrugged my shoulders, "Nada."

"Damn," Sherlock muttered under his breath, "he is one step ahead of me. How did he do it?"

I shrugged. With that we left for home, but I knew Sherlock's head was working as hard as a factory. I knew he wasn't going to stop. I knew this wasn't over.

* * *

John and Gwen arrived on Baker Street, exhausted from their pursuit of Jane Groh's killer. As they exited the taxi, John couldn't help but ask her, "Where do we return the cab?"

Gwen looked about in thought, then glanced back over at John. "Oh, I don't know. I'll just call the company or something." She replied with a shrug, not a care in the world.

John nodded to her and they went their separate ways. Before he entered his apartment, though, he could hear an agitated groan from Gwen.

"What's the matter?" He asked in concern, making his way back down the steps and over to her.

"I'm locked out." She replied curtly with her tongue in her cheek.

"You don't have a key?"

"Um, I did, but I- uh- kind of gave it to Melissa. I didn't anticipate that we would be separated at the crime scene earlier."

"What about Addison?"

"Well, she's in there. I know that for a fact; her night light is on. But no one can wake that bitch up. She sleeps with ear plugs. I could blow the fucking building up and she would still be out like a rock."

"Oh, erm, right."

Gwen placed a painted finger on her chin, "I _could_ just climb through the window, but then I would have to break it-"

John cut her off with an impetuous movement of his hands, "I don't think that will be necessary. I really don't want you to get arrested for breaking into your own house."

"Yeah, you're right. I'll just sleep on the stoop like a homeless person." She then glanced off in recollection, "It's not like I haven't done that before."

"Or," he dragged out the word with a finger in the air, "you could stay in my flat. At least until Sherlock and Melissa come back."

"Oh, you wouldn't mind?" She asked hopefully.

"Not at all." He led her away from her locked door and into his apartment. As they entered the room, John turned back to her, "Would you like to play a board or card game?"

"Oh sure! Whataya have?" She questioned with a sweet smile. _She has a lovely smile_, he thought.

"Well... there's Scrabble... and Monopoly is my personal favorite..."

"You have Uno?"

"I... actually, I've never played Uno." He admitted.

"WHAA?!" She exclaimed a bit overdramatically, "I would totally run over to my apartment to grab it if I wasn't locked out. We should definitely try it out sometime, though. It's real fun. I guess we could play Monopoly now."

"Sounds great," he replied with a laugh, "and right, Monopoly it is."

They began to set up the board when John heard a loud rumbling emit from Gwen's stomach. "I'm sorry," she said sheepishly, "I s'pose I'm a bit hungry."

"Don't be," he assured her, standing up, "though we rarely have much to indulge in. But Mrs. Hudson made snickerdoodles, if that sounds alright?"

"Perfect! I love those." She followed him awkwardly into the small kitchen as he pulled out a plate and searched for the tin he had placed the baked goods in earlier that day, "Do you have milk?"

"Oh, of course," he answered, "In the fridge."

"Thanks, John." She walked over to the other side of the kitchen and noticed that there were two refrigerators. Not sure which one John was referring to, she decided to open the one on the left.

Before she even wrapped her hand around the handle, John realized what she was doing and pulled her away in haste, "I wouldn't go in that one."

"Why..?"

"This will sound completely and frighteningly insane, but... that is where Sherlock keeps... _body_ parts..."

"What?! Is he... secretly a _serial killer_?" She whispered the last two words and looked around, as though she were afraid that Holmes could hear her.

"Sometimes I wish he were," John replied with a shake of his head, "but no. He gets them from the mortuary at St. Bart's hospital and uses them for... experiments."

"Oh. Well... that's interesting..."

"Oh, yeah. He's a right old Frankenstein, he is."

Gwen laughed and retrieved the small milk carton from the righthand fridge as John decorated the plate with a handful of snickerdoodles. They returned to their board game and played for a couple hours, laughing and chatting as they did so.

John found that Gwen was the most fascinating creature he had ever met. And funny. He started noticing things about her that he wished he didn't, like how her hair fell like a waterfall down her shoulder, or how her eyes were so bright and large, like ponds in late spring. She was beautiful. Yet awkward, much like himself. She was silly and her laugh was ridiculous. And she was clever. Almost as clever as Sherlock. The blazing difference, though, was her kindness and optimism. She was far from cynical. He found himself wondering if he was wrong to think that she and Holmes would be a good match.

Then the kiss they had shared earlier that evening drifted unforgivingly through his head. He remembered how soft her lips were, how she tasted of watermelon chapstick, how she smelled like a mixture of strawberries and floral perfume. It was strange and chaotic and just... exciting. He was ashamed of these thoughts; ashamed that even the thought of sweet, naive Melissa could not deter that craving he felt he needed to appease in those few minutes that Gwen was in his arms. He wasn't sure that if she had wanted to go any further, he would've been able to say no. He was relieved that the kiss didn't mean anything, but also embarrassed by how he reacted. And he felt a twinge of guilt, of course.

The two of them grew increasingly tired as the hours passed, both worried about their friends, but assured by a text from Mel that she and Sherlock were fine. They played a couple rounds of both Scrabble and Monopoly, their eyes beginning to droop, their yawns echoing throughout the small flat. John eventually decided to make a pot of tea to wake them up a bit. Ten minutes later, John entered the living room with two mugs, but stopped in his tracks when he saw that Gwen had fallen soundly asleep on the couch. He sipped some tea before placing the mugs on the coffee table and then grabbed a blanket to cover the dreaming girl.

When he returned to his seat beside the sofa, he suddenly thought of what Sherlock's reaction to Gwen being in their flat would be. He knew that the consulting detective would not take kindly to the idea at all, and would probably wake her in annoyance and kick her out. John didn't want that to happen in the least. He wished that Holmes could at least try to be friendly to the people around them.

The doctor shook his head at the thought of his rude flatmate and decidedly attempted to pick up Gwen so he could carry her to his room. He struggled, of course. She might've been light, but not as much as he anticipated. He finally managed to rearrange her sleeping form into a comfortable position in his arms without even a slight stir in response, and placed her carefully in his bed, tucking the sheets and comforter around her to keep her warm.

He made his way back to the living room, the caffeine from his tea kicking in. He knew he'd be awake for another couple of hours, so he settled on documenting the current results of the most recent case. As he considered the events of that day and continued to type up his latest blog, he realized how much thought he put into Gwen's appearance and overall character. Even more so than his own girlfriend's. He accidentally began to describe what had happened when the two of them returned to Baker Street and had to delete it. What was wrong with him? He cared about Melissa. But he couldn't stop thinking of Gwen.

_She's just a friend of Mel's,_ He thought,_ Just another girl._

But he knew that that was far from the truth. She was utterly and completely... _Gwen_. Undefined, untainted, and unique. How arousing that thought was, indeed.

* * *

John awoke to the sound of the living room door being yanked open and slammed shut. He had fallen asleep while typing, his computer still in his lap. He set it aside and stretched his limbs as he stood, making his way through the dark to turn on the lamp. When his eyes finally accustomed to the familiar bright yellow light, he saw Sherlock pacing about, evident anger flashing in those cold blue eyes.

"What happened?" John asked sleepily, rubbing his face.

"They should have been there! This man is no idiot, John! He knew we were coming! He knew! He found the tracking device!" Sherlock fumed, completely ignorant to the fact that John had no idea what in hell he was talking about.

"What?"

"The Frenchwoman, John! We followed her! But when we arrived, no one was there. It was empty. There wasn't even the slightest trace that she had even been there, save for the device I had placed in her coat!"

"So... you've lost her."

"Obviously!" The taller man threw off his gloves and suit jacket in rage, a tantrum which John had witnessed several times before.

"Perhaps something will turn up." The doctor offered, picking up the garments and placing them in a nearby chair.

"Hmph." With that, Holmes stormed off to his room.

"Well, then." John sighed to himself, deciding to lay on the couch.

It was only a few minutes before Sherlock came back, still in an angry huff.

"What is that _thing_ doing in your bed, John?" He demanded through gritted teeth.

"What are you- wait, Gwen?"

"Yes. Why is _it_ in your bed?"

"She was locked out of her flat, so she came here. We stayed up for hours waiting for you and Melissa, but we ended up falling asleep. I put her in my room to protect her from _this_." John gestured to Sherlock on his last word, referring to his bad mood.

"Well, we're here now. So wake her up and send her home."

"No. Let her sleep. For god's sake, Holmes, why do you dislike her so much?!"

"I just don't want to see her here tomorrow."

"You didn't answer my question, Sherlock!"

"And I won't."

"You know what I think?"

"Yes, but I don't want to hear it."

"I think that you're just-"

"Hiding a secret fancy for her? No. She is, to put it bluntly, the most annoying woman I have ever met. With the exception of Donovan."

"Whatever you say, Sherlock," John replied, shaking his head, "but you will not wake her up. Understand?"

Sherlock eyed him, "Fine."

And, for the second time, the detective turned on his heels and made his way briskly into his own room.

"Good night." John called.

He only heard a grumble in reply.

* * *

The next morning, John and Sherlock were up and moving by nine, both still recovering from the previous night. John noticed that his flatmate was in a much better mood, although he was still brooding over the fact he had lost sight of his "client".

They were silent as usual; John reading the paper, Sherlock at his microscope that sat on his desk. The two men had all but forgotten about the young woman who had slept in John's bed. That is, until she walked into the room. Both men looked at her as she entered, but abruptly turned away when they saw what she was wearing. Or more accurately, what she _wasn't_.

She was only in black underwear, her bright pink bra peeking out from under the grey lace of her monochrome camisole. John couldn't help but stare, though he hid behind his paper after a moment in embarrassment. Sherlock looked up at her, making eye contact. She grinned at him deviously, knowing exactly what she was doing.

"Good morning." He said sarcastically.

Instead of answering, she turned and sat beside John on the couch, "Hello, John. Is there coffee made up?"

The army doctor looked at her, trying with much difficulty to contain the blush that formed on his cheeks, "Um, morning, Gwen. Yes, eh, there's coffee." He coughed, glancing away from her.

"You're the one who ate all of the snickerdoodles, aren't you?" Sherlock questioned her.

"John, did you hear something?" Instead of facing John, she stared straight at the detective, fluttering her lashes in a condescending fashion.

"What?" Then John realized what she was doing as he looked between them and couldn't help but chuckle, "Oh, no. I didn't hear a thing."

Gwen made her way slowly into the small kitchen, swinging her hips deliberately. Sherlock, a bit annoyed at her ignoring him, followed.

"You're not funny, Gwendolyn." He told her as he entered, standing beside her at the counter.

"Hmm. Coming from someone who couldn't take a joke if his life depended on it." She replied, turning to look at him.

"I can too take a-"

"Keep telling yourself that, Sherly."

He huffed before changing the subject, "How is the case going along."

"Eh. It's going." She shrugged nonchalantly.

"If you need some assistance, I have nothing really to do today-"

"I'm good." She cut in, "And here I thought you didn't _want_ to help me."

"Well things change, Gwendolyn."

She laughed at this, wagging her finger at him, "How about... no."

"Really, you're obviously struggling."

"I'll consider it." She feigned a thoughtful expression,"... Nope."

"Forget it." The detective said, rolling his eyes at her.

Before he walked away, she grabbed his arm and leaned towards him, "I told you I would solve it on my own, so I will. You don't have to worry I'll fuck up."

He brushed off her hand and narrowed his eyes, "I'll believe you when it happens. Until then, your words mean nothing to me."

She patted his shoulder, smiling like she knew something he didn't- which both annoyed and interested him- and walked out of the kitchen, a coffee mug in hand. He watched her disappear into John's room to collect her things and redress. When he came back into the living room, he noticed John staring at him curiously.

"What?"

"You have a look on your face." The doctor said.

"What look?"

"This... I'm not sure... It's a thinking look, but not like the one you usually have. Where were your thoughts, Sherlock?" John grinned, guessing it was Gwen's behavior that ran through his head.

But Sherlock wasn't thinking of her. Oh, no. He was thinking of Melissa, and he had no idea why. Instead of admitting to it, he shrugged and went back to his experiment.

* * *

A couple hours later, Gwen had gone home, showered, and returned to 221B to collect John.

"What are we doing today?" He asked her as they called on a cab.

"We, my dear friend," she said as she entered the vehicle, "are going to pick up some hookers." She smiled at his shocked expression, but said no more on the subject until they reached a particularly dank apartment building.

"Look," she told him, pulling him along with her by his sleeve, "I'm going to be your bitch for a little bit, okay?"

"What?!" He stared at her with wide eyes.

She sighed, "Not literally, Doc. We're going in there as pimp and bitch. Playing pretend."

"No. No, no, no, no, no, no. I will absolutely _not_-"

"You won't have to do anything, really. Just act like you own the joint and push me around a bit. Then you just have to walk out and they'll expect I'm one of them. That way I can get some information. I'll text you when I'm finished and you can just come in and pull me out. Easy."

"This is completely ridiculous." He looked at the building, shaking his head.

"Mhmm. That's just how I roll, John-John." With that, she messed up her hair and clothes, smeared her makeup, and then rubbed her arm furiously to make it look like she was grabbed onto roughly, "How do I look?"

"Awful." He answered truthfully.

She grinned and gave him a thumbs-up, "Perfect."

He wrapped his hand around her gingerly, not wanting to hurt her.

"John," she whined, "just be the rough, sexually overpowering asshole I know you have hidden in there somewhere. I really don't want to get my ass kicked by a bunch of prostitutes if we get caught."

"Fine." He sighed, tightening his grip a little harder. He looked to her for approval.

"Good e-fucking-nough." She said, "Now, let's get this over with."

* * *

The hookers bought into my and John's act perfectly, completely unsuspecting of our true motives in that disgusting, rundown place. It took me less than an hour to collect enough information about my new target, and John came in to retrieve me without a hitch. Damn, was I good.

"So," John started as we made a safe distance from the building, "who is this Ron Glowe bloke?"

"He's got quite a foothold in the underworld," I replied, combing through my hair with my fingers, "and he owns a chain of- get this- illegal _casinos_ all over Europe. He used to frequent this cathouse all the time till he met Jane, then the visitations stopped. Until about a month ago."

"Where is he now?"

"I dunno. But I _do_ know that he'll be in one of his joints later tonight. The Bradway, if I recall correctly. It's not ten blocks from here."

John looked at me for a moment, "Then what are you planning on doing?"

"Going undercover." I replied, as if my answer was obvious. I mean, it was to me.

"So we're just going to walk in and-"

"No, no, no. _I'm_ going to walk in. And I'm going to get acquainted with Mr. Glowe, just so I can get him to admit he killed his ex girlfriend."

"That's rather stupid, Gwen." He said, "What if he figures you out? You'd wind up dead!"

"John, has anyone ever told you that you worry too much?" He only scoffed in reply, so I continued, "I'll be fine, Doc. Contrary to popular belief, I actually know what I'm doing."

He was about to object when our taxi arrived at our adjoining flats. I waved him off, rushing towards Speedy's to get ready for the eventful night ahead. I knew Irene would have a little something for me to wear. Glancing back, I saw John shaking his head before he entered his apartment. He was evidently concerned for my well being, for which I was grateful. _How sweet_, I thought, _he's such a good friend_.

Several hours later, when Irene completely transformed me into a sultry sex goddess, I strutted my way to John's door so the two of us could head downtown. When he came outside, his jaw dropped to the floor and his eyes betrayed his utter surprise at my appearance. I was wearing a dark red minidress with black strappy heels and a matching diamond earring-necklace set that was given to Irene from some corporate boss in the Windy City back when she lived in the U.S. My hair was in loose ringlets that cascaded down my bare back, I had crimson lips with matching nails, and there was black liner encircling the entirety both eyes, making them appear a navy blue color when the light hit them a certain way. If Glowe could ignore this, he would be crazy.

When John finally recovered from the shock, he blinked a few times, "What's the plan for this evening?"

I smirked, knowing that what I was about to do was virtually foolproof, "We're going in there together. I'll make my rounds to find Glowe and you stick by the door and just make sure I get him alone, alright? I called up Greg and he'll have a team waiting to scour the place as soon as we leave for all the criminals and, the man Greg's been hunting down for ages, Glowe himself. Any ifs, ands, or buts?"

"How do you know what Glowe looks like?"

"Pssh. The hookers told me. Duh." With that, we made our way to the Bradway Casino, excitement for finally solving the case and getting the bad guy caught bouncing about in my chest. It was all so old school cinematic. I could barely contain myself. But as we pulled up alongside the large building hidden in vines, I took a deep breath and composed myself enough to put on my minx face. I was a brilliant actress.

Smiling, I looped my arm through John's as we entered, then started looking around. It was a crowded restaurant. I suddenly remembered that, like in the prohibition era in America, there was a door where I had to give a password that would lead us into the casino. I told John this as I pulled him to the back of the room, scanning for a door. I found it. I knocked twice, like the hookers had told me to, and a man on the other side pulled open a sliding window, his eyes the only thing I could see.

"Password." He said gruffly.

Making a show of looking about, as if I were afraid that the cops would appear at any moment, I replied with a British accent, "Cloud Nine." The man shut the sliding window and a few seconds later, the heavy door swung open just enough for John and I to enter.

* * *

Ronald Glowe was- as everyone called him- "a rich son of a bitch". He was not shy when discussing his wealth, but he wasn't a bragger, either. For the type of work he did, he was a considerably honest and laid back guy. That in itself was the reason he was so popular, besides his hefty bank account, of course. He also knew how to party. When one of his casinos was booming, every damn rule breaker that went there could rest assure that he'd be there too, mingling with wealthy criminals, street scum, and naughty businessmen alike.

He was watching a game of poker with a raised brow and an easy smirk, half-empty glass in hand, when the most beautiful woman he had seen since last week strode in on the arm of a short man in navy flannel. Glowe saw the woman squeeze the man's hand affectionately before leaving him at the bar. Flannel man was uneasy here, which brought a small laugh to Ron's whiskey flavored lips. The man was definitely new here.

The girl made her way over to the table, peeking over a man's shoulder with a sparked interest in the game, until she raised her head and met Ron's curious gaze. She fluttered her lashes at him lazily and walked away to browse the other tables. He couldn't help but follow.

"I haven't seen you round here before." He said, leaning against the slot machine that she had inadvertently led him to.

"Maybe you just looked me over." She replied with a grin. Her London accent was slight, as though she had traveled all her life. He was intrigued.

"I'm always here- I own the place, actually- and I would recognize a face like yours." He smirked at her, grazing his eyes up and down her long legs and short red dress. When he looked at her visage again, he noticed that she was glancing over at the man she came in with. "Are you together?" He asked.

"Of sorts. His wife wouldn't be too thrilled if she found out." She smiled devilishly, and Ron came closer to her.

"What's your name, doll?"

Her lips parted slightly and she blinked before answering, "Antimony. Everyone calls me Annie, though."

He wrapped a lock of her hair around his finger and licked his bottom lip as he stared down at her, "Well, Annie, I'm Ron. Can I buy you a drink?"

She flashed a knowing smirk and leaned in closer. "A mimosa will do." She whispered seductively, tilting her head at him when she pulled away.

"Anything for you, gorgeous." He replied before making his way to the bar. As soon as his back was turned, "Annie" motioned flannel man over to her. Seeing her impetuous movements, he snaked his way awkwardly through a crowd of mobsters to reach her.

"You found him?" John asked, unbuttoning the top of his shirt. It was miserably hot in there, what with the constantly moving wall of people. He didn't like this place. Not one bit. Gwen nodded and pointed to Ron, who still had his back turned. "Should I contact Lestrade?" He questioned, backing away before Ron saw him talking to "Annie".

"Yes. But tell him to wait before he busts into the place. I want to find out what Glowe did with Jane before they lock him up. He'd more likely tell me now." John gave a slight nod in agreement before turning and leaving the building.

"Lover's quarrel?" A voice asked softly behind her. She spun around to face Ron.

"Yes." She rolled her eyes, "He saw that you were talking to me. He's quite the jealous type."

"Well, if it's me you're hanging around, he has every reason to be." He winked as he handed her her drink. She laughed and took it, her eyes holding his as she sipped slowly. He broke contact to look nonchalantly about for her friend before he smiled and encircled her waist with one arm, "How about you and I go somewhere a bit more... _private_, so we can have a proper chat." He waggled his brows and tilted his head appealingly in the direction of an elevator.

"Sounds delightful. Though taking me against this slot machine would have been an interesting experience." She smirked, her eyes glinting deviously. He choked on his drink in shock, then finished it in a large gulp and pulled hers away, setting the glasses on the tray of a passing waiter before tugging her into the elevator with him.

As soon as the doors closed, he had her pushed against the mirrored wall, his lips grazing her jaw line. Her breath caught at the physical contact, but she regained composure and pulled him in for a violent kiss. She could taste the whiskey on his tongue and despite her motives for being there, she found it arousing. The doors opened again and they backed out of the elevator- lips still locked- and bumped into the opposite wall.

He eventually pulled away and led her through a pair of French doors that opened to a large stone balcony. She let go of his hand and strode over to the railing, leaning over to look at the city below.

"You can see quite a lot from up here, can't you?" She marveled, her eyes traveling from the buildings to the sky and back again. He chuckled under his breath and stood close behind her, placing a hand on her hip.

"That's the reason I bought it." He said close to her ear, slowly tracing the index finger of his free hand down her slender arm.

"You really bought a building for the view?" She questioned with a giggle.

"When you have the means, you would do the same..." He trailed off and kissed her shoulder, making his way inch by inch to her neck. She spun around and pulled his lips against hers, her tongue searching for his. In response, he picked her up and sat her on the stone railing of the balcony, hitching her legs up around his waist.

"I haven't met a girl like you in awhile." He said breathlessly between their opened mouthed kisses, "So much... _fire_."

"I have enough fire in me to fill hell." She replied equally as breathless, mirth dancing across her lovely features. He pressed his lips against hers again, quite taken with his latest conquest. He had had many in his lifetime, but she might prove to be the most fun in years.

And while these thoughts mingled with his lust, Gwen had other plans entirely. She knew that if she were to force answers out of him, it would be at that very moment. Distracting him with her tongue, she carefully attempted to slide out the knife she had secured in a garter just under her dress. But, as she reached for it, Ron began to push his hands up under the fabric. She almost panicked as she fumbled with it, but finally managed to take it out without catching his attention. That is, until he pulled back to look at her and saw it in her hand.

He grabbed both her wrists, realizing that she very well could have used it while he wasn't paying attention. It angered him that he wasn't more cautious with this strange woman, and he placed his rage into twisting her hand, so as to force the blade out of her grasp. She let out a frustrated huff when he did this and the knife fell off of the stone balcony, disappearing into the darkness of the street below.

"What are you?" He fumed, "An assassin? Are you here to kill me?"

"Whoa, I know what it looks like, but no. I'm not here to slit your throat. Call my little weapon over there... _convincement_." She completely dropped her accent, making it very clear to Ron that she was, in fact, an American.

"What?!" He was shocked by it all, wondering what in hell she was trying to accomplish here. And did she just make up a word?

She sighed dramatically and shifted to make herself more comfortable before she replied, "I work for the British government."

"Likely." He scoffed and pushed her forcefully so she was almost hanging from the railing. Her legs wound even more tightly around him and she flailed her arms as best she could manage while still in his grasp.

"WOO! WHOA! I know, I know! It doesn't sound legit, but I'm not shitting you! Calm your tits!" She said, her voice surprisingly level considering the fact that she could be thrown to her death at any given moment.

"Even if you were telling the truth, what would the government want with me? They told me they'd let me be as long as I give them information about the criminals that come here." He replied, narrowing his dark blue eyes at her in distrust.

"Well, I do work for the gov, buddy. But, uh, right now I'm solving a crime for the Scotland Yard. Long story. But I know you dated some ex hooker named Jane around this time last year and she dumped your sorry ass. Look, all I want to know is if you killed the poor lady."

He sighed gravely- sadly- before pulling her back onto the ledge. "No. I didn't." He was telling the truth. He would never lay a hand on Jane, even if she _had_ left him. He remembered when one of her old street friends told him she had been poisoned. It had only been a couple of days since her death, and yet he somehow managed to continue breathing with the knowledge that she was utterly gone. Forever. He supposed it was because it had been a year since they had last seen each other- the day she left- and he had finally got a hold of himself and moved on. Yet the devastation of his loss was still heavy in his chest.

Gwen saw the look in his eyes and knew she had the wrong man. Yet again. She leaned in a bit closer to him as she searched for her next words, all traces of amusement gone, "I believe you."

He shook his head as he looked at her and let out a humorless chuckle, "You realize I'm not just going to let you go now. You tricked me. Though you're the first to get this far with me, which I must say I admire, you are still working with people who want me behind bars for the rest of my life."

"I figured as much." She sighed defeatedly. He grinned, preparing to yet again push her off the balcony. But she would not give up so easily. She kissed him ferociously in hopes that he would be too startled to kill her. It worked. He was motionless at first, completely caught off guard, but regained enough composure to kiss her back. With the amount of alcohol he had consumed that night, he wasn't thinking properly. She ran her hands down his back and touched something that was cold, hard, and metal tucked loosely into his pants. A gun. She smiled devilishly against his lips before yanking out the small firearm and then shoved the barrel roughly against his temple.

"Shit." He gasped.

"Now, dear Mr. Glowe," she said overdramatically, cocking the weapon slowly, so as to enjoy the fear that now flashed in his eyes, "I must be off."

She pushed him away and kept pointing the gun directly at him. She didn't have much experience with firearms, but she wasn't about to let him believe that. Not for a moment.

"Thank you for the wonderful evening, Ronny." She drawled.

As she backed away, she winked at him and blew a kiss before entering the elevator. She did love when she had the upper hand.

* * *

As soon as the elevator doors opened on the first floor, I wielded the gun freely, making certain that no one came close to me and laughing every time someone flinched when I pointed it in their direction. People were so funny when they were scared. Especially when they didn't know that I wasn't planning on using the little metal death machine in my hand.

I strode out of the casino confidently, pushing the man at the door out of my way so I could get through. When I entered the restaurant, I lowered my gun, concealing it behind me as I managed to exit the building completely. I met John and Greg at the sidewalk, my detective boyfriend gawking at my attire. I placed the gun in the garter where my knife had been and pecked his lips with a grin.

"Second floor, darling." I whispered and turned on my heels as a group of officers stormed into the restaurant. I hailed a cab as John hurried over to me. "He didn't kill Jane." I said bluntly.

"What?"

"That's what I said, John. He didn't do it. He was in love with the chick." I turned to face him and he gave me a very strange look. It was my turn to be confused.

"What?!"

"Your lipstick..." He trailed off and shook his head, "Is that how you get information, Gwen? Do you sex it out of the poor bastards?"

I raised my eyebrow at him, wiping off my smudged makeup as I answered, "I do what I have to, John." When he rolled his eyes, I added, "Besides, he was a great kisser."

John and I were mostly quiet on the ride home, but one little thing was bothering me. "We're back to the beginning." I finally sighed, referring to the case. I had no other leads. Miserable.

He nodded, but didn't turn to face me.

"John, are you seriously mad at me cos I used a criminal to get information? I mean, _really_?"

"No," he replied, rubbing his face, "I just didn't expect you to be like that."

"Like what?"

"Well... just... forget it. Never mind."

"No. You bring it up, you tell me." I demanded darkly.

"Well, I never thought you to be... I use this term loosely... promiscuous." He met my gaze and instantly regretted it, for the blazing glare I shot him could have burnt him alive.

"You think I'm a whore, John?" My voice was dangerously low and rage coursed through me like fire.

"No, I don't mean that-"

"Then tell me, what _did_ you mean?"

"Forget it. Forget I even said anything. Never mind." He shook his head, and turned to face the window again.

I stuck my tongue in my cheek in anger, knowing very well that what he was implying was actually true. I knew I could be a slut. But for him to actually say it to my face? He got brownie points for honesty, I'd give him that.

As these thoughts flew around me in the following silence, I looked out of my own window. We were in East Haringey again, passing by Jane's old apartment building. I grazed my eyes to her living room window and realized that there was a light on inside. Then a shadow crossed. It was brief- a split second of darkness- but I saw it. Someone was in there.

"Stop the car!" I ordered the driver, throwing open my door and hurrying outside. _Someone was in there!_

"Gwen! Wait! What are you doing?!" John called after me, following me up the stairs. I turned around with my finger to my lips.

"Shh."

He rolled his eyes and obeyed.

I made my way carefully to the entrance of her flat and pushed open the door silently. Pulling out the gun, I shuffled into the house, the dim living room light revealing the apartment to be in absolute disarray. I stifled a gasp as I looked up, a dark figure in a black hoodie leaping out of the window and onto the fire escape. I rushed after him, and hung out of the open window, aiming as best I could at the fast moving man. I pulled the trigger.

I looked closely and realized that I missed. Fuck, I thought as I climbed out onto the escape. I was about to descend the ladder when I saw him disappear into a van that pulled up along the curb about two hundred yards away.

"Damn it." I cursed aloud, making my way back into the house to assess the damage done to the dingy flat. Once my feet were planted on the disgusting tan carpet, I saw John stepping over toppled furniture and broken glass, shaking his head. I knew what he was thinking. Why would someone raid her house? The police had already done a thorough investigation of her belongings. What the hell was going on here?!

I sighed as I picked up a picture frame and looked about. That was odd. All of the other shattered frames were missing the pictures... I stared at the one in my hands and gasped. There, in the photo, was a young Jane... with a small boy standing beside her. Suddenly, it clicked.

"What? What is it?" John questioned, coming over to me.

"Jane... has a brother..."

* * *

That night, John and I went to visit Mike Garcia, the man I accidentally broke the arm of. I still felt bad about that, but whatever. We showed him the photo of the young boy and he told us that yes, Jane had a brother, and that his name was Jacob. He also told us that Jane hadn't seen her brother in several years because he got into some trouble with the mob.

On the way home, we made our plans for the following day in the taxi, still surprised by the sudden turn of events. Once again on Baker Street, John and I said our goodbyes, and I was about to walk away when he grabbed my arm gently to stop me.

"I'm sorry about earlier." He said, looking down, "What I called you was rude and I hope you're not terribly angry with me."

I laughed loudly, scaring a few bats that hung off the roof in the process. After all that happened that night, the fact that he basically called me a whore was what was on his mind? How cute.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing at all. It's very sweet of you to apologize. I honestly forgot about it. See you tomorrow, John. It'll be busy." With that I headed inside, my head racing with what the next day would bring.

* * *

Morning came fast, barely allowing me five hours of sleep. But that was the least of my worries. My task today was tracking down Jane's younger brother. Meeting John at Speedy's, we had a quick breakfast and made our way to the Scotland Yard. I was a bit nervous, truth be told, to finally solve the case. I mean, what if I slipped up? No, I wouldn't let those thoughts creep in. Not when I was so close.

I strutted into Greg's office once we arrived and slapped the picture of Jacob on his messy desk. It always annoyed me how scattered all his papers were. I hated it. He stared at the photo and looked back up at me in confusion, "What is this?"

"Jane Groh. That boy next to her is Jacob Groh. Her brother."

"Look, we have Glowe. You're done here, Gwen. Go home. We've got our killer all locked up downstairs."

I shook my head, "You don't understand, Greg. Ronald Glowe didn't kill Jane. And last night there was a man who broke into her house to steal _photos_. The brother_ has_ to be involved."

He gazed at me for a long moment and sighed, taking a sip of coffee before answering, "If what you're saying is true, then fine. I'll tell Donovan to do a background check and we might even be able to locate him."

"You're the best, honey." I whispered, crawling over his desk to kiss him passionately. He started to run his hands through my hair when John coughed from the doorway. I rolled my eyes and pecked Greg on the lips one more time before getting off the desk and following John out onto the street.

"He'll call me when he has the information." I told him.

There was a long stretch of silence as we strolled leisurely across the busy street. "Well..." He said finally.

"Yes, John-John?" I asked innocently, grinning at him, teeth and all.

"You have heatedly kissed three men in the past forty-eight hours. One of which was me. Does that bother you?"

"No. Not really." I replied honestly, shoving my hands in my pockets. He stared at me, open-mouthed.

"Not even remotely?"

"No. I have my reasons, John. I won't feel sorry about making a split second choice that could have changed everything if I hadn't. And when I do things, I let them go; forget about them. Especially if they cause a bit of trouble for others." I gave him a significant glance, my brows raised ever so slightly in the expectation that he'd understand I was referring to Mel and how mad she'd be if she knew what I had done out of instinct.

"Well, I-" He was cut off by a ringing in my pocket. I gave him an apologetic look before answering.

"Gwen, I have the information," came Greg's voice, "and it says here that Jacob is currently a drug dealer and henchman for some crime lord in the underground. His location was a bit tricky to find, but he currently lives in Chigwell, 480 Forester Road. "

"Perfect!" I exclaimed joyously, "We'll head out right away. You're the best, Greggy. Seeya." With that I hung up and jumped about in excitement. I was _so_ close! I grabbed John and ushered him into a taxi, singing the address to the driver. This was going to be EPIC. I could feel it in my bones. Knowing that the ride would take a while, I drifted off to sleep, my head falling onto John's shoulder.

* * *

John and Gwen briskly walked up the brick steps of 480, Gwen patting down her hair from her nap on the way there. John knocked tentatively and they made eye contact, as if they were telling each other to brace themselves for whatever this visit would bring.

Several minutes passed and the two started to bicker over whether they should go home or break in, when the dark blue door swung open to reveal a young, average sized man with brown hair and sad eyes the color of the surrounding shrubbery. Gwen took in his rumpled, seemingly exhausted appearance before introducing herself and John politely. His eyes darted between them, obviously nervous and paranoid.

"What are you? Police? I'll tell you right, I did nothin' to Jane. Nothin'!" He went to close the door when Gwen stuck her combat booted foot in between it and the wall.

"That's why we're here, Jacob. We want to know what happened the other night. And whatever role you've played in all of this, we'd like to help you." John said kindly, crossing his arms.

"I don't want your help." he stated dryly, again attempting to close the door. But Gwen wouldn't have it.

"Then we'll get you to talk by force. How would you like that?" She growled threateningly. He looked between them desperately before finally allowing them in.

"Come on, then." They followed him through the hall and into the den, where he beckoned them to sit on his large brown sofa, "Tea?"

John was about to accept the offer when Gwen shot him a look and the two of them replied in unison, "No, thank you."

He nodded and sat across from them in a floral loveseat, his foot tapping a nervous tattoo on the carpeted floor. Gwen could tell that he was the reason for his sister's death. It was painfully obvious.

"I know you killed your sister, Jacob." Gwen told him, looking him directly in the face. He stood, completely startled by the words that came from the blonde's mouth.

"You didn't even let me tell you anything!" He cried, his voice cracking with fear, "You have no proof, anyway! You can't lock me away unless I give you solid evidence that it was me!"

"Mr. Groh, sit down. It's obvious by the way you're acting that it was you, alright? So cut the bullshit. I mean, you ransacked her apartment to collect all photographs of you so we wouldn't think to look for her estranged brother. If you didn't kill her, there would be no reason for any of that. And it would also explain why there was no struggle if she had been awake. You're her brother, what would give her reason to think that you came to kill and not just visit her? Now stop tapping your goddamn foot and tell us _why_ you poisoned her."

Groh looked about wildly as though he were searching for an escape, but saw Gwen place her hand in the pocket of her fleece jacket, making it obvious that she had a weapon. He screwed his eyes shut and sunk into his chair, trying to stop himself from hyperventilating. Gwen was fascinated by his reaction to all this. She'd never seen a man panic like that.

He finally calmed himself and opened his eyes slowly before he responded, "I can't tell you the details, but it was an accident. I had no intention of murdering my own..." he inhaled shakily, "sister."

"Why can't you tell us?" John questioned gently.

"And how the hell do you "accidentally" poison someone?" Gwen added skeptically.

"I can't." He was crying at this point and Gwen was utterly befuddled. Why couldn't he just explain himself?

"Oh!" Gwen exclaimed to herself.

"What?" John asked as the two men stared at her expectantly.

"Someone else was involved." She answered before turning to Jacob, "am I right, Groh?"

He let out a strangled gasp at her and wrapped his arms around himself in fear, "He's gonna kill me. Now that you know, he's going to kill me and everyone else. _Everyone_."

"Who?" The two investigators questioned. But Groh just shook his head. Gwen sighed and walked over to him.

"Look, we can protect you. We can station police outside your flat and we can make sure no one touches you, okay? Jacob?"

He pushed her away and ran into the bathroom, locking himself in it. Gwen and John followed suit, only to have the door slammed into their faces. "GO AWAY!" Jacob yelled, "NO ONE CAN SAVE ME!"

"Just tell us, Groh! We'll let you alone. Just tell us who "he" is!" Gwen leaned into the door as she awaited a reply. When she only heard a loud whimper, she pressed her ear against it, wondering what in hell was going on. Suddenly she heard violent coughing and a body collapsing on the tiled floor inside, "Jacob?!"

Silence.

"God dammit!" She cursed angrily before taking out her gun.

"What are you doing?!" John interrogated, moving to rip the firearm out of her grasp. She pushed his hand away and placed the barrel at the knob before pulling the trigger. The handle flew off, allowing her to push open the door with ease.

She stormed inside the room and there, on the floor, was a barely conscious Groh, a mostly empty bottle of sleeping pills in his weakening grasp, "Oh my god. John! We've got a suicide attempt in here!"

John quickly entered the room and tried to figure out how many milligrams the young man before them had taken. Gwen realized that there were only six out of the several hundred pills in the bottle that remained, and each pill was five hundred milligrams. Hoping that it was an old bottle, she noticed a broken plastic seal hanging haphazardly off of the trash bin. She cursed under her breath before looking at John.

"He's a dead man, John. No way we can save him now." She told him before kneeling beside Groh. She took the man's face in her hands, her blue-green eyes boring into his, "Who. Is. He."

The man struggled weakly to get out of her vicious grasp, but didn't have the energy to do it. He breathed shallowly before responding in a whisper, "Carter."

"First name? Last? Come on! Give me something better than that!" She barked. But he didn't answer. Instead, he fell back out of her grip, his head hitting the bathroom tiles with a sickening thump. She stood up, angry and nauseated by what had just occurred, and left the house in a hurry before she vomited.

"Are you alright?" John asked when he found her by the cab, his voice laced with concern and... pity. That was not what Gwen needed. No, she needed answers. She needed a name. "Carter" was not enough, goddammit!

Breathing steadily, she took out her cell to inform Greg about what had just happened and replied, "I will be."

* * *

Ronald Glowe was not fond of jail. Not. One. Bit. He was glad he wasn't yet in prison, though. That was an entire new ball game. Here, in this tiny little holding cell, he was with a guy who got into a bar fight the night before and some kid who stole his neighbor's television. In prison, he'd be surrounded by men he screwed over by giving information about them to the government. Oh, they would be pleased to see him. So pleased, in fact, that they would gladly stab him in his sleep.

He shook these thoughts away before the fear hit. He wouldn't allow those idiots to touch him. He'd get some thugs to guard him, at least until he paid off the jury. He'd be fine. He smoothed out his shirt as he schemed, knowing that it would be another couple of days before the cops finished finding all of the charges brought against him. It bought him some much needed time.

Suddenly, an image of a gorgeous young woman with yellow hair flashed across his closed eyes. Annie, or whatever her name was, would pay dearly for her little stunt. No one outsmarts Ronald Glowe, the same man who built an empire of casinos out of nothing, who weaseled his way out of every crime he ever did, who convinced the government he was worth their precious time. Yet that little- that little... _minx_... managed to fool him entirely. She was beautiful, yes. A beautiful _bitch_.

"You, Glowe. You're going in for questioning." A young officer barked, opening the cell door and handcuffing him before leading him upstairs. He figured it was another round of interrogations concerning Jane. He was right. In a way.

But instead of Lestrade or Sergeant Donovan sitting across from him at the boring metal table in the boring little room, it was _her_. She was stupid if she thought he would tell her anything. Now she was a dumb bitch, too? He considered strangling her for a fleeting moment, but thought better of it.

"Why are you here?" He snarled.

"Well, it's nice to see you, too. I was hoping we could start over again, but..." She trailed off, grinning at him maniacally.

"What do really want me for, Annie? Or whoever the hell you are."

"It's Gwen, actually. Gwendolyn Pollock." She sighed as she leaned forward, tapping her long red nails on the table, "You see, darling, I've been hunting down who really killed your ex girlfriend."

Despite himself, he was curious of what information she could possibly possess, "Did you manage to find anything?"

"You forgot to growl, honey," she teased, "but yes. I did. Sort of. Do you know a man by the name of Carter? I mean, you know every criminal in London, if not the entirety of the UK."

His eyes widened in shock, but he guarded himself quickly. She saw the flash of recognition, though, and rolled her eyes, "Is he a friend of yours, Ronny-boy?"

"Why should I tell you anything?" He sat back in his chair, setting his cuffed hands on the table. He looked at her with cold eyes and she smirked before she replied.

"You get to know the guy who killed your girl will be punished for it. Is that not enough, dear?"

"No, it isn't. What's in it for me?" He narrowed his dark blues as she grinned on, completely unaffected by his lack of cooperation.

"Well," she drawled quietly before rubbing her heeled foot up and down his calf, "I could give you something to remember me by."

He stared at her, wondering if she was being serious. Deciding to play along, he straightened himself and replied, "Why don't you come over here and we'll talk about it."

Instead of laughing it off like he expected, she grinned wickedly and obeyed, making a comfortable seat out of his lap. Now was his moment. He could easily snap her neck and be done with it. But he was suddenly distracted from those plans as she leaned in close, her breath dancing across his lips as she lifted his arms over and around her.

"Is there something you'd like to tell me, sweetheart?" She asked innocently, grinding her hips up against him. This was not happening right now. This was too much. This bitch was crazy. This- this... He could no longer think straight. But he would not give in. His well being might be riding- no pun intended- on the outcome of this "interrogation".

He tried as best he could to compose himself before replying coolly, "It's gonna take a bit more than a lap dance to get anything out of me."

"Ah, I see. What _will_ it take, Mr. Glowe? I've got all day, you know." She grinded on him harder and he bit back a groan, hoping she couldn't tell how aroused he was. Unfortunately for him, she could feel it... just under his trousers. It was the first time he ever cursed himself for having a large, as he often called it, _package_. For a freelance government agent, she sure knew a lot about things she shouldn't. Things he would normally pay someone to do to him.

He closed his eyes to get a hold of himself, "I want out of here."

She stopped wriggling on top of him and he looked up to see her staring evilly at him through her long lashes. _If only I had a gun_, he thought, _then I could shoot her right between those pretty baby doll eyes_.

"You got yourself a deal, my friend." She said, about to untangle herself from the handcuffed criminal. Before she managed, he pulled her back onto him, winding his arms tightly around her, constricting her like a python. She gasped as he did this, which only elicited a smirk from him.

"How do I know you're not just saying that, Ms. Pollock?" He whispered fiercely into her ear.

Instead of allowing him to control her, she bit his shoulder hard and reached her hand down to palm him through his pants. The combined movements loosened his grip and she wrapped her small hands around his throat, "You'll just have to believe me."

Angrily, he let her go and she returned to the chair across from him, smug and expectant of his answer. He sighed and rubbed where she had bit him before he pulled his chair closer to the table and sat his head in his cuffed hands, "I know Carter. Very well."

"I'm listening."

"Well... his full name is Bartimus Carter and he has a decently high position in the mob. Back when I was first starting my uh, _business_, he gave me a few thousand quid and some pointers so that I would make him my partner. He's older, and I looked up to him for years, but he was making investments behind my back. When the money started disappearing, I knew he was involved. So I cut all ties with him. He wasn't happy, to say the least, but I was far from caring at that point... it was just before Jane left." He said the last part distantly, his eyes looking right through her and beyond, to someplace far away.

"Where is he now?" Her voice took on a kinder tone, which brought him back to reality. He shook his head and thought for a moment.

"After the partnership break, he usually hopped from hotel to hotel. I think The Connaught would be your best bet." He rubbed his eyes and when he looked back up, Gwen was heading out the door, "Wait."

She turned back to him, "Yeah?"

"Why would he want to kill Jane? She did nothing to him, and he barely knew her."

She pondered this for a moment and a look of realization zipped across her face, "To get back at you. It all makes sense now!" She began to dance out of the room when Ron called her again.

"And our deal?"

"Yeah, about_ that_... tell the inspector." With that she disappeared in a rush, leaving him with a gaping mouth. She screwed him over. Again.

As an officer started dragging him back to his cell, yelling for his lawyer and calling Gwen an assortment of unkindly words, they passed by John, who saw the entire investigation behind the one-way window.

He knew he should follow Gwen, but a strange feeling was pulsing in his gut. For some reason, he was angry that she got physical with this... this stranger... who was a criminal, no less! And he couldn't say that it was because she used her sexuality to lure him into relieving information. He was... _jealous_.

He pushed the thought away and hurried out the door to find Gwen, who was far beyond the little episode in the questioning room, planning their next move with her quirky brilliance.

* * *

John and I were in a cab for the third time that day, and I was drowning in an overwhelming sense of pride of the things I had accomplished in three days. _Take that, Holmes!_, I thought smugly. As I praised myself silently in my seat, John touched my shoulder to get my attention. I looked at him with questioning eyes and a tilt of my head.

"Yes?"

"I understand that Carter used Jane's brother to get back at Glowe, but do you have any idea how Jacob "accidentally" poisoned her? Or was he lying?"

I sighed and glanced out the window before turning back to John to answer, "He was telling the truth. I only have a theory about what happened that night, and I hope I'm correct in saying this, but I believe that Jacob went to her under the guise that he was visiting the sister he hadn't seen in years. Knowing her drug addiction, he offered her his syringe and convinced her to allow him to inject it. But, thinking that his boss only wanted to sedate and kidnap her to hold her for ransom, he didn't question what was actually being put in her veins. I'm sure he realized pretty quick when she stopped breathing. Instead of disposing of the body like I'm sure he was told to do, he left with the murder weapon and hid out in Chigwell. His boss was angry that he screwed up, and threatened to kill him and all of his friends if he told the police. He figured the best way to ensure his own silence was to remove any evidence that he even existed, so that explains stealing the photos. He killed himself to save the others, I'm sure. And probably because he was overtaken with grief and remorse for murdering his own family."

John stared at me and after a while, nodded, "That does make sense. Do you think that Carter saved Groh from his scrape with the mob and that's why he felt he had to do the job himself?"

"Oh, definitely. But Carter didn't count on the fact that Jane left Glowe almost right after their partnership ended, so the deed was pretty much in vain. I'm sure he wasn't too pleased when he discovered that bit. But he did get back at Glowe. In a way. But not enough to destroy him." Despite the fact that Ron attempted to kill me, I still felt bad for what Carter did to him. I would never admit that to anyone, of course.

John looked down for a moment, and then back to me, "I saw what happened in the interrogation room."

I tensed, slightly embarrassed, "You did..?"

"If you're going to do things like that, at least end things with Lestrade. He doesn't deserve that."

I gawked at him- open mouthed- for a moment, but composed myself, "Why do you care, John? It's really none of your business."

He looked hurt, which confused me, and answered, "I care because I have known Greg Lestrade for years. I care because throwing yourself at criminals might be the end of you. And it's my business as long as I'm a part of your life and I won't let you risk it for a stupid case!"

The last part of that startled the both of us. I could tell he didn't want to say that out loud, but regardless, I felt flattered by it. Without thinking, I wrapped my arms around him in a hug and gently kissed his cheek, "I'll be fine, John. You needn't worry about little ole me, okay? And John?"

He flustered at the peck and looked at me, "Yes?"

"I'm glad we're friends."

He coughed awkwardly as I pulled away, and replied, "Um, yeah. Me, eh, too."

Before I could say anything else, our cab was stalling before the magnificent Connaught Hotel. I shook my head to clear it of my mushy friend moment and stepped out with purpose. John and I entered the building and before the concierge could even greet us, I whipped out my badge and demanded to see Bartimus Carter. She nodded knowingly, and led me to his room on the fifth floor. She gave me the cardkey, clearly not wanting to be involved in the arrest of one of the guests, and left quickly.

"You called Greg?" John asked.

"He's on his way." I responded, taking out my stolen gun- I had come to love that pistol- and prepared myself for whatever would happen when I opened that door.

John nodded at me, and I slid the cardkey in quickly and shoved it in my pocket before I kicked open the door and entered. But what I saw was not what I expected.

"Oh. My. God."

"What? What's the matter?" John asked as he came in behind me. He let out a gasp at the gruesome scene before us.

There, on the bed, was Bartimus Carter... dead. There was blood everywhere and when we drew closer to look at him, the sides of his mouth were slit open into a permanent, horrendous grin. A switchblade was sticking straight out of the man's chest. John examined him further and concluded that he had been dead for at least sixteen hours.

Wide-eyed and sickened, I turned and left the room without saying a word, bumping into Greg on the way out.

"Gwen!" He called, but I was far too traumatized to hear anything. I shoved my gun in my purse and left, willing myself to remain calm.

* * *

""Young woman solves case: everything led to The Connaught". You've made the headlines, Gwen. What an achievement." John said, pulling down his newspaper to smile at me.

"Yeah, well, the fact that there's a mystery killer on the loose is even bigger news." I replied, sipping my coffee. Liss entered the living room with a mug of hot chocolate and sat next to John on the couch, pecking him on the lips before stealing a bite of his toast. I giggled at the cuteness of the two of them and sighed. I was so annoyed that both of the main suspects died in the same day. It wasn't necessarily a failure, but it didn't completely answer my questions about the exact details of Jane's murder. _Oh well_, I thought, _there are bigger fish to fry_.

It was then that Sherlock entered from his bedroom, his coat hanging on his arm. _And there's the biggest fish of them all_. "Morning, Holmes." I greeted politely.

"Before you say anything, Gwen; yes. I know you solved the case." He replied, rushing about the room to find his scarf and other items he needed before he ran off to wherever he was going.

"And..?"

"You were decent enough."

"_And_?!" I repeated, trying to conceal my pride.

He stopped and stared directly into my eyes, "It wouldn't have taken me three days."

He turned to leave, a box of folders in his hands, when I jumped up and stood between him and the door, "Seriously? That's it?"

He rolled his eyes and then looked down at me, "Good job, Gwen. You solved the murder of Jane Groh. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a new case I must be getting to."

I sighed heavily and started to walk away when he wrapped his gloved fingers around my upper arm. I turned to him, peeved, "_What_?"

"Would you like to join me?" My mouth dropped and he smirked, letting his arm fall to his side.

I regained control of my contentment as I replied coolly, "I'll check my calendar." I looked around for a few seconds then added, "No, I don't have anything planned."

John and Mel laughed and I waved them goodbye before following Sherlock out into the crisp autumn morning. Suddenly, I knew I belonged.


	10. Chapter 7: Collected Chaos

The Tuesday following my great success, Mycroft sent a black car to collect me at noon. Everything was happening so fast. I mean, just two months ago I was an off-Broadway director who was struggling to overcome the repercussions of her failed engagement. Now I was a government worker and an amatuer detective, living next door to the most intelligent man in all of England. And I was accepted by him, no less! But the Groh case was just the beginning. Today I would be starting my real job. And in truth, I had no idea what exactly I had to do. No matter. I was quick to learn and adaptable to virtually any situation. I was a social chameleon who could blend in with any group and I was good at getting things out of people. I would excel at whatever occupation Mycroft saw fit.

When I arrived, none other than Anthea was waiting for me, her phone in hand just like the time before. I sighed and rolled my eyes when she turned on her heels and stalked off without so much as a hello, expecting me to follow. I remained several feet behind her, knowing that I would say something I would regret if I drew any closer.

Once through the familiar push doors, I was surprised to find the eldest Holmes brother conversing with... my _landlord_?

"Oh, there you are, Gwendolyn." Mycroft said, acknowledging my presence to Phil. I walked towards them and glanced between the two men in confusion.

"Hello, Gwen." My landlord said, holding out his hand for me to shake. I just stared at his outstretched limb and crossed my arms before turning to my new boss.

"What's going on, Mycroft?"

"Well..." he started, smirking at how lost I was, "Mr. Dawson here is also in my employment."

"My landlord... is an _agent_?!" I all but squawked, my mouth agape.

Phil chuckled, "Yes. I am. Mycroft here had me renting out my flat to you with the intention of keeping a close eye on his brother. When he saw how interested you were in Sherlock, he figured he could gain recruitments."

I shook my head, "This is too much."

"There's something else, Gwendolyn." Mycroft said.

"Oh god-"

"Dawson will be your mentor and partner from this day forth. He will, as they say, be showing you the ropes."

I raised an eyebrow at them and sighed. This was ridiculous. I could manage _on my own_.

"Alright boss. Whatever you think is best." I replied, not even attempting to hide my annoyance.

"Good. Now I have a meeting with some very important persons. Dawson, take her with you on today's mission. It will be good for her." With that, the eldest Holmes walked briskly out of the room, calling for Anthea when he reached the door.

"So... an agent, huh?" I scoffed at Phil. He grinned and nodded, leading me out of the building and to a red Camaro, which I could only assume was his, "Is there something else you've failed to mention,_ partner_? Let me guess, you were never married and that whole 'I don't like blondes' crap was a sham?"

"No. Those are both quite true facts, actually." He replied as he opened the passenger door for me. I nodded a thanks and got in, relishing in the beauty of my favorite car model... _ever_. He entered the other side and started the engine, the vehicle humming to life. I wasn't annoyed enough not to notice the perfection of the car I was sitting in. Oh, _hell_, I could live with being Phil's partner if I got to ride in it all the time. I pushed these thoughts away as a thousand questions bombarded me.

"Okay, firstly, how much does Mycroft pay you?" I blurted.

Phil laughed again and tapped the steering wheel, "Oh, you know, a thousand a week."

"Wow. Anywho... where are we going, what will you be doing when we get there, and why the _fuck_ do I need a freaking partner?"

"Slow down there, missy. The first two you'll just have to wait and see. And the last question I'm afraid I can't answer. You'll have to take that up with the boss." He replied, zooming smoothly out of the parking lot and onto the main road. I tapped a finger to my glossed lips and stared out the window, getting easily distracted from the situation at hand due to the comfortable black leather seat.

Finally, I sighed and decided to make small talk. I was getting bored with the silence, anyway, "So, Philly, you still talk to Addie?"

He shot me a strange glance, "No. She broke up with me only two weeks after we started going out, actually. You didn't know?"

"Well, no. She has a new guy every week, if not every night. I don't really keep track of all the guys she fu-"

"We're here." He said quickly, uncomfortable with the conversation. I smirked as he parked and followed close behind him once we exited the car. He pulled out a case from the trunk and motioned for me to come with him as he hustled up the steps into what appeared to be a courthouse. I was confused when he led me to the roof, but it all made sense when he dropped to his knees and took out a sniper rifle from the bag.

"You're... going to kill someone..." I stated quietly.

"Does that bother you?" He questioned as he set it up on its tripod and stared through the scope in search of his target.

"Um... I can't say that I vilify you for doing your _job_. I just... I never really thought that this would be expected of _me_." I said dryly. I should have known that this job would turn me into killer. I was so dumb sometimes.

"You won't be a sniper, kid." He reassured me.

"Well, that's vague." I replied, relaxing only marginally.

He chuckled as he toyed with the gun some more, "I can't guarantee that you'll never kill a man, Gwen. But it won't make up the most bits of your job."

"Well, that's kind of a relief." I laughed, crossing my arms to guard myself against the fierce autumn wind that whipped around me, bouncing off of the surrounding buildings.

Instead of answering, Phil hushed me. After several minutes of silence, he clicked his tongue when he saw his target and slowly pulled the trigger. It amazed me how easily he could put a bullet through a man's head. I moved over to the side of the roof to see the chaos this guy's public death would create.

Phil roughly pulled me away by my arm and hissed in my ear, "They can't _see_ you!"

Oops.

He packed up his rifle and tugged me along with him as he rushed back down the staircase and out into the open, throwing his bag haphazardly into the backseat before we got into his car.

I was going to say something as we drove down the street, but all thoughts were lost when I saw a group of people surrounding where the man lay. Through a couple of older women, I saw a bright crimson stream flowing rapidly from the back of his head. I was disgusted.

I turned back around, bile rising in my throat, when I saw Phil watching me carefully.

"What?!" I demanded.

"Are you alright?"

"Oh, please. It's not like I killed the poor fucker." I scoffed. "I'm just grossed out."

He laughed and we sped by the scene. A few minutes later he was parked in front of my flat.

"Wait," I started, "Mycroft said that I would be getting the details of my work _today_."

"Oh, that reminds me..." With that, Phil pulled out a few pieces of paper stapled together that was folded in his pocket, "Here."

I thanked him and stuck it in my purse before getting out of the car. I was about to enter my apartment when he called out my name, "Gwen!"

"Yeah?"

"I'll be seeing ya. Oh, and make sure you get your rent in _on time_ this month."

"Phil?"

"Yes?"

"Fuck you."

He chuckled and drove away, leaving me to flail about helplessly in my thoughts.

What have I gotten myself into?

* * *

The day to perform at Speedy's had finally arrived, and the girls received not a single minute of sleep rehearsing in their basement. The girls would each sing their own original song, a few covers, and then sing a duet together. Of course, Melissa would accompany Gwen with her guitar.

Melissa begged for John to stay over and watch them practice their sets and he fell asleep on the couch once four a.m. came around.

Melissa fell asleep on John's shoulder with her head nestled into him, and Gwen was sprawled over the two of them, Melissa's guitar haphazardly placed on Winnie's upper half.

John was the first to wake up and was startled to find Gwen's head tucked in his lap. He blushed when he realized his hand was tangled in her wild blonde locks. As gently as he could, he attempted to move her so he could get up and out of the awkward position at which Gwen was placed, and accidentally sent her rolling off the couch. John gasped quietly when she hit the floor with a thump, but she continued to snore peacefully. He sighed in relief and, thinking that Mel would be the same way, gently pushed her off of him, waking her with a start.

John jumped at her quick response, "Oh, so you're a light sleeper." John yawned, rubbing his tired eyes and running a hand through his messy blonde hair.

"Yeah, well-" Mel paused as she noticed a sleeping Gwen sprawled out on the floor. "Oh?" Mel added with a confused look on her face.

John chuckled nervously to himself. "She decided the floor was more suitable, I guess." He lied with a goofy smile.

Melissa giggled and shoved him aside before kissing him gently on the cheek, "Would you like some coffee? I have to make some for sleeping beauty over here anyway."

"Yes, that would be nice, thank you." He said with a smile and gently pecked a kiss on her lips before Mel returned the smile and made her way upstairs.

John looked about the room and his eyes wandered down towards Gwen, who was still in a deep slumber, stretched out across the floor. John took his shoeless foot and poked Gwen's face with his big toe.

"_Jesus._" And, with that, John got up from the couch to be with Melissa in the kitchen as she quietly made his coffee.

* * *

"Come on, Sherlock. It's the least you could do after Gwen solved that case practically all by herself." John argued breathlessly as Sherlock rested lazily on the couch with his hair a mess and his wrinkled robe tied carelessly around his lanky waist.

"I am not going to see her perform. I don't care if Gwen solved a case that I could have solved within twenty-four hours. Her time is not worth mine at all. Besides," he paused to think, "I'm _busy_."

John didn't reply and crossed his arms, beginning to feel agitated; a glare that could only mean he was fed up with Sherlock's nonsense plastered on his face. Although he was used to his flatmate's behavior, he wouldn't let him win this time.

Sherlock noticed this look and he raised his eyebrows, "I'm busy _resting_, John. I'm... tired." And the moody detective turned his body away from John, curling into a childish ball facing the back of the couch.

"Oh my goodness." John mumbled with a roll of his eyes and sent a stressful hand to run through his styled hair, "Melissa and Gwen would appreciate it if-"

Sherlock interrupted him by turning his head, "Melissa is performing as well?"

John furrowed his eyebrows, "Yes?"

Sherlock debated for a moment whether or not he should attend this "performance". Why did the fact that Melissa was going to be there urge him to get up from the couch? He couldn't let this bother him, so he changed his mind, "I'm definitely not going then." And the mophead turned back around in his immature resting position.

"Ugh! Sherlock! You have to get out of the apartment beyond a bloody case! Take a break, will you?" John vented, "You need to learn to live!"

Sherlock sat up quickly, "If it means you'll stop raising your voice at me, then I don't see why I shouldn't attend this... this _thing_."

After John smiled and thanked him, Sherlock stood up from the couch and stomped to his room, "I'm sure whatever they're doing I won't even like!"

"You don't like anything other than your own creations anyway, Sherlock!" John shouted back.

"Tis true!" Sherlock added before slamming his bedroom door shut.

John smiled and rolled his eyes as he whispered to himself, "Oh, Sherlock."

* * *

"There's like, nobody here!" Melissa whispered angrily at Gwen, who was strumming sour notes on Melissa's guitar at the table they were sitting at while they waited to perform.

"It'll take a while before people realize that this will be a reoccurring thing." Gwen replied, trying to cheer her up, "Besides, it's a small restaurant. Give it time, Liss."

"Whatever." Mel answered bitterly. "And would you stop playing with Oscar! I just tuned him!" Mel barked, ripping her beloved guitar out of Gwen's hands.

"You need a chill pill, missy." Gwen replied with an irritated tone.

Mel slumped in her chair, putting Oscar in her lap, and noticed that how she acted wasn't 'Melissa-like'. "I'm sorry," she apologized, feeling guilty, "I'm just really nervous." She chuckled warmly.

Gwen picked up the guitar again cautiously, and when Melissa didn't react, letting her take it, she placed it matter-of-factly on her lap and began to strum it, "You've performed several times in little coffee shops and clubs back in New York. What's so different now?"

"It's a different country and I don't know if they'll like my music, or my voice or something, or-

"Oh Melissa, you've always worried about stupid shit like this." Gwen interrupted, placing the guitar gently against the table on the floor, "It's time for you to put on your big girl panties."

"I guess." Mel replied with a roll of her eyes and a soft chuckle.

"The boys are here." Gwen suddenly announced.

"What do you mean 'boys'?" Mel asked as she turned around to find both John _and_ Sherlock had arrived. Mel stood up excitedly and ran over to John to hug him lovingly and kiss him before greeting Sherlock with a "Hello," and a casual nod of her head.

She returned her attention back to John and gripped his hands. "I'm so glad you came! It's great to have someone- some _people_," Mel began, referring to Sherlock, giving him a look before continuing, "in the audience. I think I got my confidence boost!" Melissa smiled excitedly.

Gwen came over slowly and greeted them both, "Yo, Johnny-boy. Sup, Sherly."

"Could you have come up with any more of an evocative name?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Gwen choked a goofy laugh, "Yeah, probably. Go ahead, Mel. Tell him the ones we came up with the other night."

Melissa laughed and then returned to a blank look, almost appearing annoyed, "How about _no_."

Everything was interrupted by a soft tapping of a finger to the microphone, and the girls turned around to see Irene on the small stage with her hair in a tight updo, red lipstick painted on her perfect lips, and wearing a cocktail dress. Mel and Gwen both realized they should have dressed up a bit more than just a nice t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

"This evening we have two beautiful young ladies, Gwendolyn Pollock and Melissa Giordano here, who will be performing several songs for you every Friday night. They just moved here from the Big Apple and are _very _excited to perform today, as well as a good friend of mine from New Orleans, Eddy Jones."

The small group of people quietly clapped as Eddy climbed onto the small stage with his guitar and his pearly white smile. He had the image all women craved. Too bad he was gay.

After his set, he came off the stage with much love from the audience. Melissa and Gwen almost felt intimidated and feared they couldn't match his charisma. This wasn't the first time the girls performed at a public place, but they felt that they could have had more experience with these kind of situations.

Gwen and Melissa waited patiently after Eddy's set and he approached them with a smile, "You girls ready?"

Gwen nodded furiously as Melissa scoffed, "Gwen's going first."

Gwen squealed and hopped right up on stage.

"Why so down, sugar?" Eddy asked Mel, slinging a friendly arm around her shoulders. Melissa sighed stressfully, running a hand through her straightened hair. Eddy flattened a fly away on her head.

"I'm nervous. What if they don't like my music?"

Eddy rolled his eyes. "I promise, they'll adore you! Look at those dimples of yours!" Eddy joked with a gentle poke of his finger to her cheek. Melissa chuckled and Eddy continued, "Now don't leave your chica hangin' and get up there. Here, you can use my guitar for good luck."

Eddy handed her his guitar and Melissa took it cautiously, "Woah, Eddy. Are you sure you want an amateur like me to use a guitar like yours?"

"Don't be silly. You ain't an amatuer. If anything, I admire you." Eddy complimented with a light tug on her shoulder, "Now get up there and sing your little heart out." He gently tapped her butt to urge her onto the stage.

John witnessed this and looked over at Sherlock, "That man just touched my girlfriend's-"

Sherlock interrupted, "He's gay."

John nodded and believed Sherlock, yet still continued to keep his eye on the man as Melissa skipped onto stage.

* * *

"That was an excellent performance, girls!" John complimented as they sat around the table in the boys apartment.

"Thanks!" The girls replied in unison.

"I wish I could have attended this, but no one informed me." Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, coming from the kitchen with a fresh batch of snickerdoodle cookies, giving John a glare of disappointment.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but I had completely forgotten to tell you about it. I figured you were out running errands of some sort." John meaningfully apologized.

"It's alright, dearie. As long as the girls can give me a performance in the future." Mrs. Hudson smiled at Gwen and Melissa as she wiped her hands on her skirt before joining them at the table.

"Oh yeah, don't worry, Mrs. H. There'll be plenty more at Speedy's. It's going to be a regular thing, ya know." Gwen explained as she grabbed three cookies from the plate and stuffed them into her mouth.

Melissa coughed at Gwen to remind her of her manners and she looked off, embarrassed, her cheeks puffed out with the amount of food in her mouth. John laughed loudly at her misbehavior and Mel looked over at John with concern in her eyes. He never laughed like that when they were together.

"If you will excuse me." Sherlock said suddenly before getting up and exiting the apartment with his coat.

Melissa was quite befuddled at Sherlock's behavior. "Um, yeah, me too." She said and followed him, forgetting her jacket.

She walked outside and saw him standing there at the edge of the curb. The street lights glistened, the cool, crisp autumn air sent a chill to run down her spine.

Before she approached him, Sherlock spoke, "You'll catch a cold."

"Yeah, I know. I just wanted to, uh, make sure you were okay." Melissa lied.

"You really shouldn't lie, Melissa. I'm the world's greatest detective, you know." Sherlock said with a slight turn of his head, and then he fully turned around to face her.

"What do you me-"

"You stuttered."

"Well, I- I'm a stuttering type of person." And Melissa wasn't lying about _that_. In fact, she was just nervous around him. She didn't know why, but she always had this sense of being intimidated every time she was near this man.

"What do you want?" Sherlock muttered rudely.

Before replying, Melissa crossed her arms in attempt to keep her body warm, but it was no use, "Well, I wanted your opinion, too."

"On?"

"My performance today. You didn't really say much at the table."

"It was fine." Sherlock replied in annoyance and turned around to face the buildings in front of him, as well as gaze up at the stars. Sherlock so desperately wanted to tell her how lovely her voice was and how she lost herself whenever she got to an emotional part of the song, as if it just rolled off her tongue like she was _meant _to say it.

"You were a bit flat in certain spots and you should really work on your bar chords." Sherlock responded instead.

This reply didn't surprise Melissa and she just smiled and rolled her eyes, "One more thing?"

"What is it?" Sherlock replied, sounding annoyed.

"I know we're not necessarily on the best of terms, but I'm wondering..." Melissa started.

"Go on. Spit it out." Sherlock pushed eagerly.

"You've known John longer than I have, so... have you noticed anything lately?"

Sherlock just stared at her in confusion. Sometimes Sherlock wondered how her stupidity astounded him.

"What I mean is... I think John likes Gwen, too. Do you think anything happened between the two of them while they were working on the case together? I mean, I wouldn't care because Winnie and I have gone through this situation before and I wouldn't be surprised if he _did _like her. I mean, come on, this is Winnie we're talking about and-"

"You're doing that mumbling thing again where you talk a lot." Sherlock interrupted.

Melissa shut right up because she knew that she did that often and she always turned bright red in embarrassment. "Sorry." She apologized.

"I may know a lot of things, but about .001% of it is knowledge of love. Don't ask me. Ask Gwendolyn."

"No, that's too straight forward. I mean, has John talked about her at all or-"

"Listen, Melissa. If you're jealous, why don't you just come right out and say it?" Sherlock interrupted again as he slowly inched towards her.

"I am not jealous!" Melissa denied. She was, in fact, not even the tiniest bit jealous. She was actually quite relieved. She felt like she wasn't into John as much as she thought she was. Of course, Melissa thought he was handsome and charming and very polite, but he was missing something she needed.

"Why don't I believe you?" Sherlock crossed him arms.

"I don't care if you believe me or not._ I_ know that I am _not _jealous." Melissa fought back with fire in her tone. Sherlock stared back at her with a blank expression and slowly made his way towards her as she continued, "I am a mature adult and I handle things in a _mature _manner, okay?"

Sherlock slid off his coat and handed it to her. Melissa shook her head, confused, "I don't need your jacket."

"Yes you do, Melissa. Your body is shaking and your teeth are chattering. Call me out if I'm wrong, but I am surely positive that that is a sign that your body temperature is decreasing."

Melissa stared at the coat as she continued to shiver. "I'm going in anyways." Melissa declined as she made her way to the door. Sherlock dropped his arm with the coat to his side.

He didn't want her to go. He enjoyed her company for some strange reason. "Anyway." Sherlock corrected her.

Melissa stopped and turned around, "What?"

"It's 'anyway'. Not 'anyway_s_'."

Melissa seemed confused for a minute then realized what he was talking about, "Right. Thanks..." And as Melissa headed back to the door she mumbled, "Grammar nazi," under her breath.

* * *

I woke up hoping it would be a good day with the sun shining down on the Autumn leaves and the birds singing, but my hopeful daydream was interrupted by the pattering of hard rain on my bedroom window. I slowly got out of bed and looked out at the backyard as the blue sky was swallowed by gray clouds and the grass flooded with precipitation.

"Great." I muttered before retreating to my bed and hiding under the covers. My cell phone soon went off and I groaned as I reached over to my side table, grabbed my phone, and pulled it under the covers with me.

I smiled at the caller ID, "Hey, Eddy. What's up?"

"Hey, Melissa. I have _great _news for ya'!"

"Was there a record company at the cafe yesterday wanting to sign me into a contract that will bring me fame, riches, and a huge vacation house in Switzerland?" I squealed.

"Okay, I have _good _news for you. So I've come to the realization that those little gigs at Speedy's aren't going to tide you over, so I got you a job."

"Woah, woah, woah. How'd you know I needed a job?" I chuckled, sitting upright in my bed.

"Gay man's intuition..." He paused for a moment, "And Winnie told me."

"Ah, right. Well, where did you get a job? Please don't tell me it involves working at a deli of some sort." I laughed as I got out of bed and paced the room.

"No!" he chuckled at my specific, unwanted profession, "I have an old friend of mine who owns a music store and it's a very busy one, in fact. He's getting pretty old, so he needs an extra hand around the place. I only work part time there and he needs a full time worker to look out for him, so I told him you'd do it."

"Eddy, you're amazing! You know me so well. I've always wanted to work in a music store and I love old men!" I chuckled.

"That's weird, Mel." Eddy replied awkwardly.

I sighed dramatically with a roll of my eyes.

"I know what you meant." Eddy joked, "So if you want, the music store is literally less than a block from your apartment, you can come over now and chill with me for the day. I'll train ya'!"

"I'll be right over!" I exclaimed. Living here in London has brought me several opportunities that I have been so lucky to receive.

* * *

I found the music store called "Schmidt's Music", and it had an outstretched sign with a giant black eighth note. I thought it was the cutest thing.

As I entered the large music store that was, indeed, very busy, I smiled at the array of several guitars hanging on the wall. I ran my fingers across the glossy bodies of the instruments as I watched my reflection change colors.

"You know, since you work here, you get employee discounts on everything in the store." A familiar voice spoke behind me.

I turned around to see Eddy already a few steps back with his hands behind him. He was wearing a white flatcap, a pair of dark wash jeans, a short sleeved white t-shirt, and a pair of combat boots.

"Lookin' good, Eddy!" I squealed as I rushed over to him and hugged him tightly.

He pulled away after a gentle squeeze and gripped my shoulders. "You're looking even better." He complimented with a smile.

"I'm only wearing a-"

"Forever 21 t-shirt, a cropped jacket, Aeropostale skinny jeans, and those moccasins are super cute! Also, where'd you get that saddle bag?" Eddy questioned as I examined my own attire. This was just what I wore when walking about the streets.

"A street market?" I answered.

"Oh, cute. Anyway, lemme give you a tour." He smiled his white smile and slung an arm around me as he directed me towards the percussion section.

"You don't really need to know everything about all the instruments. Like, I know you're really good with guitars and re-stringing and tuning and which guitar is best, but just ask me or Oscar for help with that other stuff. Oscar and I don't expect you to know how to clean out a saxaphone or how to tune a flute-"

"Actually, I know how to tune a flute." I smiled slightly, gnawing at my bottom lip.

"Awesome!" Eddy smiled excitedly as we walked up the stairs into a section which had capos, cleaning kits, microphones, amps, etcetera.

"Who's Oscar?" I asked, remembering that Eddy mentioned someone with that name.

"Oh, he's the owner." He answered.

I nodded my head as I walked over to a guitar that was on display. I gawked at how beautiful it was.

"That's an Epiphone EJ200CE Electro Acoustic Guitar. I've been working on it for someone lately. I added the vintage sunburst to it last weekend." He winked.

"Can I- can I play it?" I asked in a low mumble, still awestruck at it's beauty, gazing at it.

Eddy shrugged his shoulders, "I guess."

I picked it up immediately and sat down on a stool next to it and strummed a few chords. It was beautifully tuned and I was in love with it. _Watch out, John, you've got competition_.

"Who's playing my guitar!" An angry, eldery, New York City accented voice shouted from downstairs. I was so entranced in it's sound I didn't want to put it down. I could hear feet stomping up the stairs and I looked up to find an old man violently marching his way over to me in a leather jacket, a neon green buttonup shirt, a pink bow tie, black leather pants, and black converse with rainbow laces. It looked like One Direction and The Doctor threw up on him. As he got closer, I noticed a My Little Pony pin dangling from his jacket. He grabbed the guitar from me and gently placed it in the stand.

"Who are you and why are you touching my stuff?!" He looked over at Eddy after scolding me sternly, "And Edward, you know better!"

"I'm sorry, sir." I apologized.

"No, Mel, don't apologize. This is Oscar Schmidt. The owner of Schmidt's Music." Eddy smiled, "Oscar, this is Melissa Giordano. She's the one I told you about. The one I hired to help you out?"

"Oh! Well sip my strawberry milk juice with butterfinger syrup, would you look at that! Hi, Melissa! I'm Oscar Schmidt! Welcome to Schmidt's Music! Established in 2003." he smiled.

I chuckled, "Oscar Schmidt? Like the guitar?"

He leaned forward and put a hand cupped near his mouth to whisper loudly, "It's not my real name. It just sounds cooler."

I giggled.

"God, Eddy. You could have warned me. I didn't know she was going to be this adorable!" Oscar said, gently gripping my chin like I was a child.

I tried to hold back an angry glare but just smiled awkwardly. Maybe I can get used to working here.

I smiled shyly as he picked up the guitar and placed it on my lap, "Play somethin' for me. Eddy tells me you're a great singer. Well come on then. Play somethin'."

I looked at Eddy and he smiled, nodding his head, urging me to go on. I bit my lip in concentration. Should I sing an original or a cover? I went with an original song, and at the end, Oscar was in complete awe.

"Well, well, well. You're a mighty fine musician there, Ms. Giordano. I was the lead guitarist of a band back in the day. Only stars have vocals like that." Oscar complimented.

"See, Oscar! I told you! Plus she's a friendly girl, so she'd be a great employee here!" Eddy exclaimed, wrapping a big arm around Oscar's tiny frame.

"I believe you, Edster, don't worry." Oscar looked at me with a smile and shoved his hands in his pockets, "You're hired."

* * *

I was in the parking lot of the art supply store to get some new canvases and spray paints, nothing new. As I got out of my new white jeep, I circled it, trying to get ideas on how to personalize it. When nothing came to mind, I gave up and went inside. Other than my room, this was my favorite place to be. There was something calming about the low white noise and the uniformity of the employees' attire. Although things this bland and dead drove me crazy, the place inspired me.

My head flooded with a million ways to change it and one thing lead to another. Next thing I knew, an explosion of colors and shapes with or without borders filled me up and I just felt whole.

I'm sure I looked like a serious creep, though, because the first twenty minutes or so in the door I just stood there, taking in everything around me. I apparently seemed like enough of a basket case to attract the attention of an employee. "Can I help you, miss?" He questioned with a dorky smile.

"Huh?" I asked, coming out of my trance, "Oh, no thanks. I think I know this place a _little _better than you, kid." I'm not sure why I called him 'kid'. He was a year older than me at least, maybe more. I think he said something else, but I wasn't at all listening.

I walked off while he was still talking and found myself in my favorite aisle; spray paints. There were _so_ many _colors_. I found myself in front of a selection of greens. As though it had a mind of it's own, my hand reached for a bright lime shade. It was beautiful. I pulled the top off and brought it up to my nose, inhaling the fumes. I wasn't trying to get high. I was doing the opposite, in fact. Often times the spray paints produced a nauseating smell that made me dizzy.

A laugh from behind me startled me, tensing my finger on the aerosol spray and getting my nose covered in the noxious paint. I guess that answered my question about the smell. Angered, I spun around and shouted, "Thanks, jackass! Now I look like a retarded Rudolph! The fuck's wrong with you?"

His smile turned upside down, "Whoa, calm down. Sorry, I didn't think you'd do... _that_." He laughed again.

I didn't know if I should hit him or flirt. He really was a gorgeous guy. His eyes were a deep brown. He had short dirty blonde hair that looked like he didn't have to try for. Glancing down, I saw his lean build. He wasn't muscular or athletic looking, but rather the muscles he had were toned and he smelled like mint. All that combined with a bright, white smirk on his face; yeah, it was time to get my flirt on, "Whatever, it was an accident, I guess." No way he could have misinterpreted that.

"Well," he began with a sarcastic tone, "why don't I help you clean up?"

"Yeah, alright." I let up a little and even smiled.

It felt weird, the way my facial muscles contracted and pulled over my teeth. I didn't know if I liked it.

He wet a paper towel in the water fountain and started dabbing my nose. After three minutes of wet nose dabbing, I realized it wasn't working and I'm pretty sure he did too. "What's your name?" He asked, smiling into my eyes.

"Dylan. Dylan Moriarty. You?"

"Alex Allen. So, your name is really Dylan? Isn't that a-..."

"Guy's name?"

"Yeah..."

"Apparently not. Unless I have a penis that no one's told me about." I used a pretty rude tone when saying that. It may have been a bit uncalled for. Too late to unsay it.

"Again, relax."

"Sorry." I frowned.

"Well, Dylan Moriarty. Do you think you could let me have your number?"

Again, my look softened a bit, "Yeah, that'd be okay." I must have been blushing, too, because his look definitely said that. Blushing or not, I wrote my number down on a piece of paper and gave it to him.

"Great, I'll call you sometime."

More than anything in that moment, I really hoped to hear from him again.

* * *

After about a week of working at Schmidt's Music, I began to fall in love with it. Oscar and Eddy would tell me several times to go home and to take a break because they would find me working there all day and into the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes I worked for free just because I wanted to.

On my way home from work, I saw Winnie as she stepped out of our flat and took in a breath of fresh air- rather dramatically- before she stepped off the stoop. She turned her head and smiled when she saw me approach her, "Hey, kiddo. How was work?"

"It was great as usual!" I replied, "Although, I had to deal with this middle-aged lady who argued with me about where the strings went on a guitar. The thinnest one is on the bottom and the thickest one is on the top when you hold it correctly. But she went on and on about how I was wrong and that I didn't know anything. Moral of the story, you just tell her that she's right, string it the way she wants it, and then let her go home and complain that her guitar doesn't sound right." I shrugged.

"_You talk a lot_." Winnie joked in a whisper.

"Yeah, it's a habit of mine. Thought you knew that." I replied.

Before Gwen could respond, we heard the door to 221B open and close quickly.

"Hey, Sherly!" Gwen called out as she skipped toward him. Sherlock ignored her greeting and raised his hand up to summon a taxi.

"Where ya' goin'?" She asked. I walked over and stood beside Gwen and stayed silent. I always felt inferior when standing around Sherlock. His tall stature and quick wit always threw me.

"Nowhere that concerns you." He mumbled, sounding a bit annoyed, facing away from us. Or maybe he was annoyed that the street was practically dead and no taxis were around to come save him from the wrath of Gwen's curiosity. I tugged on Gwen's jacket to get her attention, but she shrugged me off.

"Come on, Sherlock. Tell me!" She begged, pouting.

"Work." Sherlock replied distantly.

"What work?"

"The hospital."

"Where's that?"

"None of your business, Gwendolyn. Now run along." I could tell Sherlock was beyond pissed. His face was turning red. Or it could just be the chilly weather.

He sighed in relief when a cab whizzed by and he got its attention just in time.

"Can we come with you?!" Winnie asked excitedly.

"Bye, girls." He said, sounding irritated as he entered the taxi and it drove off. Winnie rolled her eyes and stepped to the curb to call for a cab.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"To follow him, of course." She replied as a taxi approached the curb.

"You're insane! He'll kill you!" I warned.

"And do you think that'll stop me?" She quickly responded as she climbed into the cab. I got in after her.

"Follow that cab!" She chanted. "I've always wanted to say that." She chuckled, looking over at me. The driver took one glance at her with a raise of his eyebrows, signaling he was weirded out, and began to follow the taxi that held Sherlock within it on his way to the hospital.

"Ahh. So he works at Bart's, eh?" Winnie claimed as the cab stopped just as Sherlock entered through the double doors.

"Gwen, I don't think we should follow him into work. Don't you think that's weird?" I exclaimed as Winnie paid the taxi driver and he sped off, glad to no longer have us as passengers.

"Weird is my middle name." Gwen replied with a tinting of her southern accent as she strutted towards the entrance of the hospital and threw open the doors.

I groaned as I followed her and tried to keep up. We remained far behind Sherlock and as he entered a long dreary hallway, we debated on whether or not to continue following him as we hid behind a nearby wall.

"So he works in the morgue..." Gwen concluded as Sherlock disappeared into another room. "Neat!" She whispered loudly to herself and ran down the hall.

"Gwen!" I whispered harshly at her, "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Shhh!" Her shushing echoed through the hallway.

"Who's the loud one now?" I whispered.

She stuck her tongue out at me and opened the door. I rolled my eyes and followed her, staying close behind. The room looked like a darkened laboratory. Eyeballs floated in jars, a microscope sat neatly aligned on a table, and a content Sherlock was seated in front of it.

"Welcome to my humble abode. I figured you'd 'stop by'." Sherlock said, continuing to peer into the microscope, seemingly interested in whatever he was studying.

"How did you-"

Sherlock cut Gwen off, "By the way, Gwendolyn," he looked up from his specimen of some sort, "heels aren't a recommended choice when stalking someone." He continued his examination.

"We weren't stalking you. We were following you." Winnie defended.

"Oh, same thing." Sherlock fought back.

"Don't include me in this." I said as I took a step away from Winnie, but backed into a rolling cart, almost knocking a few test tubes down.

"Be careful!" Sherlock said through his teeth as he rushed over to the cart I had bumped into, "Those are like children to me! And highly explosive, too." He adjusted some toppled tubes and walked back to his microscope with a heavy sigh. "Could have turned all of London into a radioactive wasteland." He mumbled.

My eyes widened as Gwen giggled, "That wouldn't have been the first time." This was not the time for her sarcasm. I hate annoying people and that's exactly what I was basically doing.

A thin, petite woman entered the room in a white lab coat with red hair tied into a loose bun. She appeared startled and almost dropped her clipboard when she had noticed us in the room.

"Ah! Molly, could you escort these two _things_ out of the morgue? They're disrupting my thought process." Molly nodded her head and approached us.

"Hello!" Gwen greeted her with an enthusiastic wave.

"Oh! You're American!" Molly replied with an excited smile.

"We come in peace." Gwen replied and threw up a 'live long and prosper' sign with her fingers.

Molly chuckled, sounding amused, "Who are these lovely girls, Sherlock. Do you know them?"

"They are merely acquaintances." Sherlock denied, peering into his microscope.

I kind of felt like toying with Sherlock's patience, so I said, "We're his neighbors!"

"Oh my! You're the new residents of 222C! Sherlock mentioned something about new neighbors. He said they were rude, obnoxious, and abominations to the human race." Molly said, slowly turning her head towards him. We all glared at Sherlock and he could feel our eyes on him.

He looked up from his microscope. "Well it's true!" He defended. We continued to stare at him. He rolled his eyes, "Girls, this is Molly Hooper, the pathologist. Molly, these are my nuisances, Gwendolyn Pollock and Melissa Giordano. They moved here from New York, blah blah _blah_. Now _please_ escort them _out_!" Sherlock introduced, sounding much more agitated.

"Wait, you're Melissa?" Molly said, looking at me as if she has heard about me.

"Yeah?"

"Sherlock has mentioned you-"

"Okay, ladies! It's time to leave! Molly, would you hurry up with the escorting!" Sherlock interrupted, his patience running low. He almost sounded nervous, too.

"He has?" I asked. I was actually a bit shocked.

Molly nodded secretly, "Alright, well it was lovely meeting you two! I hope one day we can make plans to have some tea together." Molly smiled politely.

"Of course!" Gwen replied.

That wasn't the last time we had seen Molly Hooper. I kind of wanted to know what Sherlock had said about me.

* * *

Gwen, after two days, finally worked up the courage to open the little piece of paper that would show her the world in which she would be sucked into while in Mycroft's employ. She was excited, of course, but she knew, in her _very core_, that this would change her life forever.

She took a deep breath, cursing herself for being so wimpy, and unfolded the paper in one swift movement.

There. Was. A. List.

Which, to her relief, made things easier to take in and somehow detach her from any emotion that may or may not hinder her work ethic. All thoughts left her, though, when she read the top of the list.

_Training_.

What. The. Fuck.

She continued reading the introduction paragraph, annoyance bubbling in her gut:

_In order to be eligible for the Secret Service, an applicant must undergo a series of training exercises to be fully prepared for the work they will be expected to do._

She finished the entire packet and sighed, knowing that the multiple types of training she had to receive would take months to complete. This sucked. It really _sucked_.

Once again, her thoughts were derailed, but this time by her bubbly flatmate, Melissa.

"Ready for dinner with the guys?" She asked, looking at Gwendolyn questioningly. The thoughtful blonde had completely forgotten the plans that night and shoved the papers in her pocket before running to the bathroom to brush her messy hair.

When she came back, Melissa wasted no time in opening the door and briskly walking down the street, making Gwen run to keep up with her.

"What's the rush, Liss?" She asked her curly haired companion.

"I'm hungry, Winn. I haven't eaten since ten this morning." She replied with a sigh, rubbing her stomach.

Gwen laughed and entered the flat, Mel behind her. Once the door was open, they were attacked my Mrs. Hudson's mother-like inquisitions about their day and concerns about how peaky they looked.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm sure they're fine." Came John from the kitchen, chuckling at how pleased his landlady was with their continuously visiting neighbors. The girls had only been there for a month and a half, yet they frequented 221B so often, it was as though they lived there.

He pecked Melissa on the lips and stared at Gwen for a long moment, thinking of how attractive she looked when her hair was cascaded down one shoulder. He mentally shook himself out of his reverie when she waved at him with a friendly grin. He waved back and turned away before he allowed his mind to wander again.

"I'll go check on supper. Sherlock should be out by now." As he and Mrs. Hudson entered the kitchen, the girls sat side by side on the sofa.

"I finally read through those papers Phil gave me the other day." Gwen said after a moment.

"And?" Mel sounded concerned and curious.

"I have to go through _training _first." She replied angrily, folding her arms and biting her lip. She made the word sound like it was a disgusting one, which was not lost on her dearest friend.

"So? What's the big deal?"

"The big _deal _is that it will take _months _to learn all this shit. I won't be getting paid for that time, either!"

"Well, I could help." Sherlock said from beside the couch. The girls both jumped at his sudden appearance and Gwen looked up at him hopefully.

"You could?" She asked, her voice raising a couple octaves in excitement.

"May I see the papers?"

Gwen handed them to him quickly, looking at his face for any hint as to what he was thinking. But his face was blank, as usual.

"Yes, I know a few people who could teach you how to do all of these things. And also how to hotwire vehicles, pickpocket, and break into houses."

The two blondes looked at him with open mouths. "Who the hell knows shit like that? Are you friends with criminals?!" Questioned Gwen bluntly. She always knew how to get a point across.

"Eh. Of sorts." He replied vaguely.

Gwen was about to interrogate him further when Mrs. Hudson called them in for dinner.

"I'll discuss this matter with Mycroft, alright? And if he allows it, you'll be meeting them tomorrow."

Gwen's eyes twinkled in gratitude for the sociopath's unexpected kindness, and the group gathered in the dining room for supper.

* * *

I awoke early the next morning to the irritating tune of "Call Me Maybe" by Carly Rae Jepsen. I groaned and picked it up, keeping in mind that it was an unknown number. I fleetingly considered ignoring it, but this was a London one. It might be important.

"Hello..?" I answered groggily, fighting a yawn as I sat up in my bed.

"Mycroft agreed to your training by my means as long as your partner accompanies us." It was Sherlock.

My heart fluttered as I realized that _he _called _me_. I was ecstatic, wondering why he was being so... _nice _to me. It was obvious by how he acted that he was usually never this helpful. I entertained the possibility of his returning affection.

"Thanks." I replied impassively.

"Meet me on the street in forty minutes. And be sure to call Dawson." He commanded before hanging up.

I sighed and got up, disappointed that the conversation had to end so abruptly. But that was soon drowned out by the thought of seeing him in less than an hour. I got dressed in a hurry, letting my mind wonder,

_I'll bring Mel. I'm certain she'll enjoy this._

* * *

It was a crisp morning- winter fast approaching- and Tom Baker was waiting rather impatiently with his righthand man, Sully, for Mr. Holmes. Just the previous night the detective found Baker (the self-appointed 'captain' of the Irregulars) and, in his detached fashion, explained that he had a companion interested in being 'trained' by the band of young mischief-makers. The captain was told to wait in the old junkyard and that they would arrive by 9:30 that morning.

Baker was pacing. According to his old, beat up pocket watch, they were five minutes late. How very unlike the detective. He was always so punctual concerning his own appointments.

"Sully, I'm about to call this entire thing o-"

"We have company!" Interrupted Hawk from atop the mound of tires adjacent to the twenty year old leader and his two years inferior first mate, his handmade binoculars pressed excitedly to his gaunt face. He was a thin, redheaded boy of fifteen. Clumsy, and pretty much useless to Baker in every way, his knack for invention and keen eyesight (for which he was nicknamed "Hawk") were his only saving graces.

Baker sighed and looked to the entrance, watching as four figures arrived.

"Four?" Sully asked. They had only expected Holmes and the trainee.

As the group approached, Baker and his boys could see that Holmes was being accompanied by another man and two young women not much older than the captain himself.

"Baker." Sherlock greeted coldly, nodding to the head honcho of the Irregulars.

"Firstly, you're seven minutes late. Secondly, you said that there was _one _person that wanted our help. What happened there, Holmes?" Baker fumed.

"This is Gwendolyn," he gestured to the leggy blonde beside him, a devious glow in her eyes, "and Mr. Dawson here is required by their employer to accompany her. Ms. Giordano, on the other hand..."

"I asked her to tag along." Gwendolyn interjected boldly, going up to shake the captain's hand. He raised an eyebrow at her forward behavior, but kept his eyes on the other girl. The wide eyed one with curly hair who looked rather out of place in her present company.

"Baker, is it?" Gwendolyn questioned, bringing the young leader out of his thoughts.

"Yes. Thomas Baker. Captain, to you. This is my first mate, Sully."

The younger man beside him gave her a slight bow, "Pleased."

She returned the pleasantry with a curtsy and faced Baker again, "So, here's a list of things I need to know. Will you be able to assist me?"

She took a folded paper from her pocket and handed it to him. He laughed when he opened it and ran a hand through his light brown hair, "A government agent? I can honestly say no one of that sort has come to _us _to prepare for a job like _that_. Doesn't the government supply its workers with training, anyway?"

"It would take too long." She replied flatly.

"Impatient, aren't you?" He asked as he skimmed over the list, "Well, your diet and physical health is yours to manage, but everything else we can cover."

She gave him a wide grin, "Thank you, Cap'n!"

He nodded in acknowledgement and turned to walk off, "Now, if you'll follow me, I can introduce you to the specialists and you can get started from there."

As the group trailed after him, past the mound of tires, Phil grabbed Gwen's upper arm roughly and spoke sharply into her ear, "This is a ridiculous idea. I don't trust these... _street rats_."

"Shut up. They've done nothing to overthrow the bloody Queen, so get your panties out of a knot."

"They're basically underage criminals!"

"They could be useful to us even after the training. Be a little open minded, Dawson."

"Pah. 'Open minded'? Is that what you are?"

"Yes. And completely crazy, but that's beside the point."

Phil blinked at her and was about to reply when Baker halted in a clearing surrounded by stacks of totaled cars and heaps of broken household appliances.

"Oi! The lot of ya! Our guest of honor has arrived!" As soon as the words left the captain's mouth, a bunch of kids of all different ages and ethnicities scurried out of vehicles and from behind junk piles to form a line in front of the new arrivals.

"Are you _serious_?!" Dawson groaned quietly to himself.

"What're you bitching about _now_?" Gwen hissed without turning back around to face him.

"I didn't realize we were dealing with real life Oliver Twist. Oh, Dickens would be _proud_." She didn't reply, but prodded him with her elbow before gracefully working her way to the front of the group, beside Baker.

"This, my men, is Gwendolyn."

"You can call me Gwen." She added kindly with a smile.

"Good morning, Gwen!" The line of kids replied in unison, boys and girls alike bowing to her in a respectful greeting.

"Now," Baker said, rubbing his hands together as he lead Gwen to the first in line, "This is Raz. He's a graffiti artist in his spare time, but he's my messenger and one of my oldest friends. He knows every street, shortcut, tunnel, and alley in London, and he'll show you how the mass communication with the underground works."

Raz, a brown haired boy of nineteen, stepped forward and shook her hand, "I'm the reason Sherlock even knows his way about the city. He and I go way back. You're his neighbor, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Yes. It's good to meet you." She replied before turning to a younger boy beside him. He was about sixteen and definitely of Greek descent, what with the pronounced ridge of his nose and tanned skin.

Baker spoke, "This is Rosco, our weapons expert. He can work every gun, knife, and bomb in England."

The boy grinned sheepishly, "Not _every _weapon, Cap'n. I've yet to get my hands on a bazooka." Gwen chuckled as Baker moved onto the next.

"Here's Tatia. She was a gymnast before coming here. I'm sure you could use some flexibility training and her tricks could come in handy in physically exerting situations." The girl, around eighteen, smiled to Gwen politely. She was lovely; with large green eyes, chestnut brown hair, and rosy cheeks.

She was a bit uneasy around the captain, and Gwen fleetingly wondered why. But the young man had already moved down the line, gesturing to a boy of twelve and what Gwen could only guess was his little sister, who looked no older than eight, "That's Scruffy and Pigeon. Scruff could pick every lock or pocket in London. And little Pidge here can show you how to hide or escape in the worst scenarios."

The boy looked at Gwen with lovestruck eyes, and swooped down a little too quickly to kiss her hand over-dramatically. The little girl beside him rolled her eyes at her brother's goofiness and grinned up at the pretty lady, her innocent eyes bright with laughter. Gwen retrieved her hand from Scruffy and patted the two of them on the head affectionately before Baker introduced her to a set of seventeen year old identical twins beside her new admirer and his sibling.

"Meet Garfield and Gilbert." He said, pointing to the boy on his right, then the other on his left.

"No, _I'm_ Gilbert." The first said.

"And _I'm _Garfield." The latter added.

"You can call us Gary and Gil." They then told her in unison.

Baker shook his head, "These two steal and sell cars for a living. Hotwiring is a proper skill to possess, I'd imagine."

She shook their hands, grinning, and then came face to face with a white haired girl of fifteen who had a rather serpentine look to her thin form, "I'm _Silver_." She hissed, only adding to her snake-like appearance.

"She's our negotiator. She can talk _anyone _into _anything_."

Gwen nodded, intrigued, and followed the captain to the last one in line. He was a muscular young man, Japanese, and very somber in his mannerisms, "This is Akio. He's a black belt in karate."

The man bowed traditionally to Gwen, who returned it wholeheartedly. She then straightened and smiled at the array of young talent before her, barely containing her excitement for the training that was about to ensue.

"Are you ready to start?" Baker questioned, wanting to get this introduction done with so he could get a moment with Ms. Giordano, who stood awkwardly beside Sherlock, eyes wide with uncertainty. And if the captain wasn't mistaken, a hint of fear of the rough and ragged group before her, too.

"I was born ready." Gwen replied as the line of kids dispersed.

Akio stepped forward to show her some basic self defense techniques. This was going to be the start of an interesting new lifestyle.

* * *

"Who is he?" Mycroft asked, clearly irritated that this couldn't wait until morning.

"We don't know..." The guard replied, slightly quivering, "But we believe he murdered Bartimus Carter, the one that worked with Glowe."

Mycroft snatched the file from the adjacent table and began to examine its contents, "How do we have a file on a mystery man? Where did this even come from?"

"It was sent over to us from the United States. As you'll see, he's been quite a problem there. Calls himself 'The Joker'." The guard replied, gesturing to the man in the interrogation room who dressed exactly like the Batman character.

"That villain from the comics? Why is he even a threat? This man should be in a straight jacket, not handcuffs."

"That's the dangerous part about him. This guy is absolutely _insane_."

"This should take five minutes." Mycroft opened the door to the gray room. He was escorted by two young guards, both of which were armed with guns big enough to require both hands.

The prisoner looked up at Mycroft, not moving his head to match. He waved flirtatiously at him, yanking on his cuffed hands.

"If this is the _surprise_ birthday party I've been _hoping_ for, I do pray you got me _confetti cake_." He said with a sarcastic smirk, "Oh, and the present table's a bit _bare._" He nodded to the metal piece of furniture with only a styrofoam cup of tap water on it.

Displeased by his sarcasm, the younger of the two guards cocked his massive weapon.

"Tsk tsk, _Jeremy_. You shouldn't do _that_. What would your mother think of you pointing guns at _helpless_ men while she lies in the hospital, put there by _six_ bullet wounds." The Joker put his head in his hands with his elbows on the table.

"H-how did he know-" Jeremy stuttered.

"I _know_ everything. Now why don't you two go play somewhere else and let the _grownups_ chat for a while." He waved his hand in a dismissive motion.

"You're relieved." Mycroft told them as the Joker continued his wave and the guards left cautiously.

"Go on, then." The Joker said before he pushed the chair across from him with his foot, "Sit, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft didn't sit. "Who are you?" He demanded.

"Why, I'm _The_ _Joker_, of course. Silly _goose_."

"I know that. What is your _real_ name? Where are you from?"

"My name is Barnaby Butler. I'm a kindhearted chimney sweep from the gutters of London." He started with a stereotypical British accent, "My mother was a priestess and my father lives in space."

Mycroft walked behind the Joker, "We can do this one of two-"

"Do you know what makes me so _elusive_?" The Joker interrupted, "It's that I _get_ people. I see their _demons_ and who they _long_ to _be_. I can zero in on exactly what makes them _tick_ and use it to... _rewrite_... who they are."

"You are my prisoner, dammit! You will not-"

"You're a little _crazy_, Mr. Holmes. Don't you think?"

"No I do-"

"Shut up! That was not _meant_ to be answered. By the way, how's your diet going?"

"None of your damn business! Now focus on what we're talking about. Who are you working for? Why did you murder Carter?"

"Who _wouldn't_ wanna kill that idiot? He couldn't even rip off his _partner_ without getting caught." The clown shook his head, "No, he didn't follow _orders_. The rich ones rarely do."

"What did you tell him to do for you?"

Joker ignored this question and began to hum a familiar tune.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Mycroft asked, confused by the children's song, "London Bridge", coming from the Joker's red lips.

The Joker didn't stop and kept his out-of-tune humming on a loop, only pointing to the window, which overlooked a major British landmark; the London Bridge. Still just as baffled- and now quite annoyed- Mycroft turned his gaze to the window slowly and was horrified by the unfolding tragedy he was witnessing. Taunting, yet calm, the Joker continued his little song as the bridge collapsed into the Thames River, taking hundreds of innocent lives with it.

As he reached the notes of "my fair lady", the Joker raised his hands, slamming them down on the last note. "SPLASH!" He laughed maniacally.

Mycroft punched him as hard as he could. The Joker spit out blood and gave him a crimson smile. Mycroft knew why. That was the first time he had lost his cool with a criminal. Mycroft sighed and sat back in his chair, elbows on the table, head in his hands, "What do you want with the government?" He asked wearily.

"Oh no, my... _plans_... are far bigger than anything... _political_." The Joker smiled.

Mycroft raised his head and said angrily through his teeth, "Then what the hell do you want?"

"I want... _Gwen_."

* * *

I was alone that night. John and Melissa had gone to the movies with Addison and her blind date. I decided that it would be a good moment to spend some time with Sherlock. Ever since I solved that case with the poisoned woman, he began treating me as his equal, just as I suspected. He did not, however, form any remote feelings for me beyond companionship, which I planned on changing as quickly as possible.

I took care to perfect the details of my attire, hair, and makeup, so that he would find himself staring at me longer than he would normally anticipate. Finally, when my poker face was applied, I made my way over to his flat.

Once I reached the staircase, after Mrs. Hudson allowed me in, I tiptoed up the stairs so he couldn't recognize my footsteps. Then I quietly opened the door and snuck inside.

There, sitting on a stool beside the window with his violin in hand, was Sherlock.

"Evening, Gwen." He greeted without turning around.

"Dammit. I didn't expect you to be staring out the window." I replied, walking over to him and leaning against the wall.

"If not for that, I probably wouldn't have known it was you." He put the violin in its case and stood beside me.

"Really?" I was glad to hear it. I loved to catch him off guard. It was my own way of proving his humanity and also to impress him. By now he knew how clever I was.

"Yes. Now, what is it that you wish to discuss with me?" He inquired, striding over to the sofa to sit on it with crossed legs. I followed and sat next to him, keeping my feet on the floor.

"I wanted to spend some time with you. I want to be friends, so I figured we could just enjoy each other's company and talk." I answered, smiling at him, "But I guess you're too busy yearning for John's return for that, huh?"

He raised an eyebrow ever so slightly at me in response. He wasn't one for jokes, which was- besides his cockiness- the only thing that bothered me about him.

"Why are they together?" He suddenly asked. I was taken aback. How odd for him to say such a thing.

"I'm going to guess you're referring to John and Liss?"

"Yes. I don't quite understand their attraction to each other."

"Are you mad that John has a girlfriend? Is that what this is all about?"

"No. All that I am saying is that there are no sexual or romantic feelings between them, so _what_ is keeping them together?"

"Perhaps... they _think _they like each other that way? I don't know. I personally think that they are a pretty cute couple."

His face betrayed how much he disliked my reply. His random interrogation suddenly made sense.

"You like her, don't you?" I implored, hoping that it wasn't true, knowing it had to be.

"Of course not!" He scoffed. I could tell he was lying. His nostrils flared when he lied. I wondered if he knew that.

"You do! Holy crap! You have a crush... on _Lissa_?!" I was in complete shock. He thought she was stupid! He said it constantly! I was also a bit upset, considering that all this time I was hoping it would be me.

"No! I- yes. I do. And I can't seem to figure out the reason behind it! She's the complete opposite of what is even similar to my type!"

"So... let's get this straight. You like Melissa, who is currently dating your flatmate slash colleague slash closest friend?"

"Unfortunately..." He looked distressed by this, which appalled me.

I knew I had to make a decision right then and there. I had to choose between Sherlock's happiness, and my own. I acknowledged the fact that if Sherlock had actual feelings for her, there was nothing that I could do because he did not simply _like _women. I would have to be a magician to catch his fancy at this point. I understood that it was an impossible task and that I would be wasting my time. But what about Melissa? What if she _wanted _to be with John? And wouldn't it hurt John if Sherlock just stole her away?

"I'm not sure how she feels about you..." I said, still debating about what I should decide upon.

"I see." The melancholy look on his face and that weakened tone of voice made my heart ache. I knew what I had to do.

"Listen, I'll ask her how she feels about you, okay? And if you want to separate them, I suggest you discover if John has his eye on someone else, and then plant the seed in his brain that Lissa isn't right for him. I'll work on her end of things. If we get ideas in their heads, they'll break up of their own accord."

"Brilliant!" He boomed, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek, startling me, "Thank you. Why did I not think of that myself?!"

His childish outburst warmed me and I knew that, despite how I felt about him, I would not regret what I had done.

* * *

It was a dark night, the stars shying away from the electrical lights of the city. Here, the sky seemed so much farther away. In upstate New York, the stars were bright and twinkling. And in Texas, where I was born, it was as though the horizon was kissing the earth.

I had gone straight from Sherlock's flat to mine, my throat tight with the emotions I refused to show him. I loved him. Yes. _Love_. But I was too late. I wasn't quick enough to catch his fancy.

_There would be another._ I told myself dryly, _Someone, someday, will love me. All I have to do is wait and hope._

I was craving the skyline, knowing that the closest to the moon I would get that night was from the top of a building. Without thinking, I climbed out of my second floor window and to the roof, ignoring the nipping cold of the wind. I sat on the ledge and looked around me, musing,_ This is such a perfect spot_.

I then gazed up at the night, reaching out my hand to the sky, as if the stars were reaching for me, too. Stars always held my admiration, even when I was young. They were my hope, and I had faith in the wishes I always flew up to them on evenings like this.

"Starlight, star bright," I said the little rhyme I've known my whole life aloud, "first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, to have the wish I wish tonight."

Teary-eyed and hurt, I whispered almost urgently to the empty air, "_Him_."

I stayed there awhile, talking to myself, the stars, God, anything that would listen. I knew it was about time that I loved again. It had been _so __long_. Chris was my last love, and he scarred me. It made me afraid of ever loving again, but this damn detective just did something to me. I knew life was unfair. I knew that it was painful.

I knew.

But I still cried; alone and shivering on a roof.

Love had never been kind to me.

* * *

It was a Wednesday night when Melissa invited Sherlock and John over to 222C for dinner, claiming that things in their apartment had undergone a series of major changes since last the two colleagues visited. Intrigued by this statement- as well as to spend time with the girls they were too ashamed to admit they adored-, neither of them could resist accepting her invitation.

They arrived at six on the dot, greeting Addison as she opened the door. With a nonchalant wave, she let them in before going back up to her room. The two men were shocked when they looked about the living room, a swarm of animals taking the place by storm. There were dogs, cats, rodents of all shapes and sizes, birds a spectrum of colors, and many odd, exotic creatures occupying most of the open space.

Melissa came in with a kitten in her arms, smiling at them as she approached. "Hello, guys!" She greeted before giving John a quick peck.

"What in god's name is going on here?" He questioned, gesturing to her chaotic living room.

She shrugged, "Gwen."

"Figures." Sherlock muttered to himself, "Pray, tell me why exactly she decided to turn your flat into a miniature zoo?"

"Well," Melissa began with a deep breath, "Gwen was hanging out with some of the Irregulars and they came across this old man selling little monkeys. So she bought one and when she brought it home, Addie and I just had to get our own pets to compensate. Then the other day we fed a stray dog, thinking it would move on and never come back, but instead he brought a group of other strays with him the following morning, so we decided to let them stay awhile in the backyard. Not long after that, a random dove came flying into our bathroom window with a broken wing, and since Addie minored in veterinary medicine in college, she decided to let any hurt animals come here so she could fix them up. Then Winnie built this huge coup on the roof for all the birds that need a rest or some food. She's currently working on a clay cave up there for any resident bats, too. So yeah... that's why..."

The two men just gaped at her, stunned by their strange neighbors and their need to hoard and help these random animals. She shuffled awkwardly under their gazes and was about to speak when Scruffy and Pidge entered the living room from upstairs, both freshly bathed and clothed in brand new garments.

"What are you two doing here?" Sherlock couldn't have looked more taken aback.

"Oh, their dad was just arrested on a drug bust. Winn said they could crash here for awhile because they don't want to go into foster care." Mel answered for them, setting the kitten down to place a motherly hand on the kids' shoulders.

As the two men tried to adjust to this, the oven beeped from the kitchen and Melissa rushed out to attend to it, "Will one of you go fetch Winnie? She's in the basement, painting."

John took up the offer and jogged down the basement steps, stopping at the little alcove where the second flight began, to listen to the music that drifted from the room only a few feet below him. It was Harry Belafonte's fun tune, "Day-O".

He descended the last few steps and opened the door, taking in the sight before him with good humor. There was Gwen, in the center of the room, dancing about and singing along to the music as she painted. She was barefoot, only in ripped up jeans and a paint-splattered white t-shirt, her long blonde locks held back with a red bandana. He marvelled at how beautiful she was even in the simplest of clothing.

When he examined her painting, he chuckled. It was an abstract depiction of a woman with a fruit hat, her hands pressed to her cheeks in horror as she looked up to the brim, a content tarantula resting there. Then he noticed a monkey sitting on the easel. It was a young female Capuchin and as he made eye contact with her, she pointed him out to Gwen.

Gwen spun around with a brush in her hand, splattering paint across the doctor's face incidentally. "You're not Mel." She stated obviously before seeing the mess she made, "Wait, did I do that?"

"Yeah." He replied with one eye open, the other covered in black paint.

"She turned off the stereo beside her and grabbed a wad of paper towels before going over to him, "I am so sorry about that. Here." She then began to wipe the paint gently from his face.

When he could see with both eyes again, he looked at her, completely caught up in her bright blues and concerned expression. "Thanks..." He murmured.

"It didn't get in your eyes, did it?" She questioned.

"No, no. I'm fine." He almost leaned in to kiss her, but realized how stupid that would have been and instead cleared his throat and shuffled away, "That's your monkey?"

She grinned at him, unknowing of the little internal battle he just had, and nodded, "Yeah. Her name's Coco. She's real smart, too. She never strays too far from my shoulder, either. Isn't she the cutest thing?" She picked up the baby primate and kissed it lovingly on the head.

"Yeah. Adorable." He replied, a bit envious of the creature and the affection it received from its lovely owner.

She set it on her shoulder and gazed toward the stairs, "D'you come to collect me for dinner?"

"Yes. Um... shall we..?" He offered, gesturing for her to go first. She smiled and, with a silly curtsy, made her way up to the first floor. As John followed, Coco, still sitting on Gwen's shoulder, turned to face him and put up its middle finger before sticking out its tongue. His jaw dropped and he gave it a dirty look. "Bad monkey." He mouthed, shaking his finger at it.

The monkey then slapped him across the face and leapt off Gwen as they entered the kitchen and scurried off. "Did you- did you see that?" He asked everyone in the room.

They all shook their heads and he sat at the dining room table, wondering what the fuck just happened. Did he just have a spat... with a _monkey_? He looked over at the preteen boy, Scruffy, who was hurrying to get Gwen her food for her, obviously in hopes of getting a praise or a kiss. The boy saw John staring at her and gave him the stink eye as a clear sign that she was "his girl". He shook his head, wondering how many other animals or people were vying for Gwen's attention.

_Only with these two_, He thought, referring to both Gwen and Mel. They then ate dinner together- Irregulars, friends, and creatures alike- as if it were normal. And perhaps to Melissa and Gwen, it was.


End file.
